


Blood Curse

by emeraldeye



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Beads, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood Magic, Bondage, Caning, Character Death, Cock Rings, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Name-Calling, PTSD, Paddling, Poisoning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Restraints, Rope Bondage, Slow Burn, Spanking, Strangling, angsty sometimes, curse, puppy love!, puppy-like Mahanon, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 164,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldeye/pseuds/emeraldeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my 2015 nanowrimo story that I will post as I complete each chapter. Since it is for nanowrimo it will only have basic editing, a run through a spell checker and that's it as the whole point it to spend time writing without getting bogged down on editing. </p><p>This is my Mahanon / Bull story with some added extra tension or reasons for what they do. You know, in case the whole saving the world isn't enough.</p><p>Warnings and characters will be updated as they occur.</p><p>Update: With NaNoWriMo well and truly over, I am beginning to edit the chapters bit by bit so hopefully their quality will improve. From about Chapter 18 I've also been taking my time and editing them properly before posting so they should be better now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prequel - Attack

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place before the events of Dragon Age Inquisiton.

Mahanon stalked through the forest without even trying to be stealthy. He probably shouldn't have left, he knew that. He knew that it would likely only lead to more mocking later but he just couldn't tolerate it any more. He had been asleep and felt something crawling. In his dreams, of course, his mind had interpreted it as spiders crawling over him and that was enough to make him wake up with a gasp. Then, with his eyes definitely wide open, he had seen that it was spiders. Two of them.

Mahanon screamed.

He sat up and frantically started brushing and slapping his arm, trying to knock them off without having them bite him. One of the hunters, Kari, heard his scream and came running to ensure he was alright. Seeing that it was just a spider that had woken him, he laughed. And by the time he had emerged from the aravel for breakfast it had spread throughout the camp. He had forced himself not to respond to the laughter and mocking imitations of his morning scream. When even Faerel had laughed at one of the more accurate impersonations of Mahanon, he could tolerate it no more and, rather than start a fight with the whole clan, he had stood and left.

Mahanon dared not go too far. The clan was due to leave soon and he didn't want them to delay it waiting for him to return. There was a small river that they used for water, though the camp itself was hidden a ways from it to be away from any prying shem eyes, and it was there that he went. Bending over he scooped up a thin rock and skipped it down the river. The clan knew of his fear of spiders and most of the time they forgot about it. It was just when stupid things happened like this morning that it came to the fore again. He was a hunter, a Dalish hunter. He was supposed to be content with all nature and, for the most part, he was. But for some reason, ever since he was small, spiders just creeped him out. It wasn't fitting, they said. Nevermind that he was the best damn tracker the clan had, and the fastest with his daggers, they never seemed to be able to forget that one little thing.

Mahanon heard footsteps approaching him and recognised the tread as Faerel's. He didn't bother turning.

"I thought I would find you here," Faerel said as he came up behind him to stand close but not quite touching. "You know they were only having fun."

"Hmmph," Mahanon said. "Always fun at my expense."

"Sure, but they don't mean anything by it. Just as you laugh when I balls up a spell."

The corner of Mahanon's mouth twitched at that, remembering the last time that had happened. Faerel was the clan's First and, generally, quite a skilled mage. Healing was his forte but that also meant he struggled with offensive spells and generally considered it nearly impossible to turn those spells to harming a living being. It went against his healing nature, he said. The last time Faerel had been practicing fireballs just outside the camp. Small ones so that they were easier to control, or something - Mahanon didn't really understand magic. Faerel had cast one and sent it towards the target when a bird had flew across in front of it. Faerel had frantically redirected the fireball - directly into an aravel. Mahanon had teased him about it for days, not for the avoiding to hit a bird - he admired that - but for directing it into an aravel and then being unable to cast the ice needed to put it out instead of directing it to just one of the other targets.

"I guess," he allowed, still a little put out by the whole thing.

Feeling arms slip around his waist, Mahanon turned with a small smile. "I'm all right, really," he said, and he kissed Faerel's forehead. He valued these snatched moments together. The clan did not approve of how close they were. Mahanon, as someone who was not magical, was needed to increase the clan with less risk of creating a mage-born child. Faerel had a little more freedom, but his affairs were closely regulated in other areas. Thankfully though, Mahanon was still considered too young to be paired with a woman yet and likely could avoid that for many years to come. The Keeper would prefer to have Mahanon choose of his own will who he would like to bond with of course. But Mahanon knew it would be unlikely he would be able to find someone willing to allow him his... indiscretions.

"Good. Let's-"

"Shh!" Mahanon cut over him. He thought he heard something.

"What is-"

"Shh!" Mahanon said again, a hand going to cover his mouth this time, lightly, just to make his point. Yes, there it was again. Taking Faerel's hand, he pulled him behind some bushes and crouched down just before some shems wandered into the clearing. Vints. They were laughing and jesting in that brutish tongue of theirs and though they seemed oblivious to how close they were to a Dalish camp, they were armed to the teeth and a threat. Two mages, Mahanon saw, three archers and four swordsmen. Too many for him to take on even if Faerel's offensive magic was predictable. Were it just the four swordsmen he would have chanced it but not with how many there were. Not even he was that good.

They both crouched there silently, hoping that the shems would leave so they could return to the camp and warn them but the more they watched the more it seemed as though they were setting up camp. It was still morning so why they would be stopping now, Mahanon couldn't figure out and, while his human common was passable, he had never bothered to learn the Tevinter tongue so he couldn't tell what was being said, what their reason there could possibly be for coming here at all let alone camping by the river.

Unless... surely they didn't know about the Lavellan camp? That was a disturbing thought. There weren't enough of them to take on the whole camp, of course, but to pick off any hunters as they went out? There were definitely enough for that. And it would be worse if they were slavers.

Hearing Faerel shift his weight, Mahanon rested a hand on his leg trying to will him to stillness. His muscles were cramping as well but it was a familiar feeling to the Hunter; a First had no reason to patiently wait by a trap for their prey.

"We need to go." Faerel's voice was mere breath against Mahanon's ear and Mahanon nodded. Yes, they needed to leave - if the Vints were making camp here then they were bound to be discovered before nightfall and that's provided no one from their camp came looking for them. It was just a matter of how and when.

Mahanon was still holding on to Faerel's hand from when they had darted into the bushes and he gripped it tight, watching the vints as they moved around setting up their camp, getting a feel for their movements as though they were prey Mahanon was hunting. It wasn't quite the same - animals tended to move around where the grazing was good - but there were some similarities. And then...

There!

Making sure his grip on Faerel's hand was tight he leapt up and ran, pulling the First behind him as they ran from the camp. Were it just Mahanon it probably would have worked, but Faerel had had no training in stealth. The noise they made as they crashed through the undergrowth would have alerted even the most unaware people. A shout went up but Mahanon didn't pause.

Then a burst of pain spread from behind his shoulder causing him to stumble and fall, letting go of Faerel's hand as he did so so that he wouldn't be pulled down as well. Faerel only ran a few more steps though before he turned to see Mahanon on the ground.

"Go!" Mahanon shouted. "Warn them, I'll catch up!" He drew his daggers and rolled to his feet. His left arm had blood running down it and his grip wasn't strong enough to be particularly useful but he gripped his dagger as best he could anyway. He had to buy Faerel time, he-

"What the fade are you doing?" Mahanon demanded, feeling healing magic spread over his shoulder. "Go!"

"No," Faerel said, his voice tight with fear but just as much determination.

Growling, sheathing his daggers and drawing a throwing knife, he threw it at the nearest vint, not even pausing to see if it hit before turning and grabbing Faerel's sleeve and running again.

"We have to warn them," Mahanon growled. "You have to warn them or they won't have the chance to get away. I'll hold them off as long as I can and lead them away from you, then flee when I have to. Don't worry about me," he said, trying to be reassuring, flashing a grin.

Faerel nodded and Mahanon let out a silent breath. He drew his daggers again and turned to face them. They had attracted the whole vint camp by now but at least he heard Faerel continuing to run. "Keep running," he whispered.

Seeing one of the swordsmen branch off to try to follow Faerel, Mahanon chose him as his first target. The swordsman was a fast runner, but Mahanon was faster. His bare feet pounded the ground as he closed the distance between them. The swordsman turned. Too slow. Mahanon's daggers sliced across his throat before he could even bring his sword up in defence. Before the body had even hit the ground Mahanon was moving again. An archer who was knocking an arrow to take down Faerel. He wasn't even looking as Mahanon plunged his daggers into his back and, once more moved on. It was as though the shems were moving in slow motion, so fast was Mahanon moving. Maybe he could do this. He would be the envy of the clan if he managed to take them all down on his own, they would never mock his fear of spiders again, he could-

Too slow! A blast of energy struck Mahanon in the chest and blew him backwards. His shoulder clipped a tree trunk as he flipped over. He dropped one of his daggers but it was the left hand one anyway and that didn't have the strength of his right since whatever it was that had hit him to begin with. He dug his remaining dagger into the ground and arrested his movement, then used it to pull himself upright as he charged once more, scooping up his dropped dagger as he went past it.

The mages, he had to take the mages out while he still had the energy to do so, they were the greatest threat to the clan and to himself. Spotting one as it was launching a fireball at his head, Mahanon dodged to the side and felt the heat as it whooshed past. But by then he was on him. Quite literally as he launched himself at the mage and slammed into his chest, knocking the two of them to the ground just in time to avoid an arrow flying past where Mahanon had been. He slammed his daggers into the mage's neck then rolled off him.

Pushing himself away from the choking shem Mahanon's blue eyes cast about for his next target but before he could locate one he was blasted forward by something - lightning - striking his back. Despite himself, Mahanon screamed as it lanced through his body. A heavy weight landed on him then, a swordsman.

"Mahanon!"

Mahanon felt his stomach drop at the familiar voice calling his name. Faerel.

A knee was pinning Mahanon's right arm to the ground but he swung his left arm up, managing to dig his dagger in. The man above him just grunted and slammed the hilt of his sword into the side of Mahanon's head. It was supposed to knock him out, he knew that, but either Mahanon's dagger had weakened him, or his attempt to move his head aside worked just enough so that the blow only stunned him.

Dazed, Mahanon wasn't really able to react when the swordsman got off him and rolled him over onto his stomach, quickly tying his wrists behind his back. With a hand under his shoulder he was half dragged half carried back to the vint's camp. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He could hear fighting still and knew that the fool Faerel was trying to save him. Idiot, he should go back to the clan, get help!

And then the fighting stopped.


	2. Prequel - Captured

A thump next to him alerted Mahanon to Faerel being dropped beside him. Glancing at him, he didn't seem to be in particularly bad shape apart from a cut to his forehead. That was something at least.

"I told you to run," Mahanon hissed to him.

"In case you hadn't realized, Mahanon, I outrank you," Faerel snapped in return. He always was snippy when something went wrong. Though granted, nothing had ever gone this wrong before. A sigh, then, "I did run. But then you screamed and I couldn't just leave you here so I came back. Besides, you were never going to leave, were you? You were just going to keep fighting as long as you could." Mahanon couldn't lie from the accusation in Faerel's voice so instead he chose to say nothing. "I thought so."

"Hey. Shut it!" one of their captors said in heavily accented common, landing a solid kick to Faerel's side. He grunted but lay quiet.

Mahanon tried to look around as best he could, tried to assess their new situation. Mentally he cursed Faerel once more for not doing as Mahanon had said, and running. Now he knew that no one would come for them any time soon, probably not until the following day at the earliest. The Keeper knew of Faerel's and Mahanon's relationship and generally turned a blind eye towards it so long as Mahanon was aware that it wouldn't be allowed to continue forever. She would likely just believe that the two of them wanted some time alone or something as they did on occasions. Always though they returned before the following day dawned. When they didn't this time, that would be the earliest any kind of alarm would be raised. So waiting for help was out of the question which only left helping themselves.

Faerel clicked his tongue to get Mahanon's attention and, as he watched, the First called a small flame to his hand, the hand that was bound behind his back. As Mahanon watched, the flame licked through the rope binding him, freeing him, though Faerel at least had the good sense to grip the ropes so that a casual glance would make it appear as though he were still bound. He rose a blonde eyebrow to Mahanon who gave a small nod in return. Slowly, ever so slowly, Faerel wriggled towards Mahanon. The vints weren't paying attention, believing them captured and complacent as any good slave would be. Mahanon had no intention of ever becoming that "good slave" however.

Eventually, Faerel was close enough that he could direct the small flame and, with only a small grimace of anxiety, he sent it towards Mahanon's wrists. It went exactly where he directed it, but Mahanon couldn't help but wince a little as it licked at his wrists as well. Still, it did as it was supposed to and ate through the ropes. As soon as Mahanon felt them give, he flicked his hands up to smother the flame, ignoring the sting of it.

"I'll cast a barrier over us. You say when to run. And we run together, none of this holding them back bullshit," Faerel whispered.

Mahanon nodded and watched and waited. They would likely only get one more shot, he wasn't going to waste it. The Vints were laughing and joking and very few of them really seemed to be paying that much attention to them. Well that was about to change. The soldier closest to them was the main threat, they had to wait until he moved. He was supposed to be guarding them, Mahanon figured, but he was more interested in using one of Mahanon's daggers to clean and pick at his nails. There were no other captives in their camp but having captives seemed familiar to them; they had been determined to capture them rather than kill them Mahanon realized. Even when he was struck by magic during the fight, neither time had it been close to deadly. Painful, yes, but not deadly. They must be slavers, it was the only reason Mahanon could think of that Vints would not attempt to kill. And they were not meant to be in this land or they would have just let them go. Mahanon wondered if they had ever actually grabbed many Dalish though since they seemed so confident that they wouldn't keep fighting or trying to flee.

"When this guy leaves to relieve himself we'll run. When we do, send up a fireball or something into the air. If someone in our clan sees it they'll know there's danger and will move the camp," Mahanon whispered and Faerel nodded. At least he hoped that's what would happen. Either that or hunters would investigate and riddle these Shem with arrows.

Unfortunately there was no way to encourage their guard to go relieve himself sooner so they were forced to wait about an hour, laying as still and placid as they could, pretending they were still bound and pretending they were still defeated. It was long enough that Mahanon's adrenaline was starting to fade and all his aches and pains became known to him. Part of him wished they hadn't been so hasty to burn through the ropes; it would have been easier to let them take the weight of their arms rather than rely on their muscles holding still in such a position for this long. A glance at Faerel showed that he was suffering from the strain even more than Mahanon was: his arms were trembling. They had to move soon or they wouldn't be able to hide what they had done from their captors much longer.

Finally, finally, their guard pushed away from the tree and wandered over towards the bushes. Mahanon shot a glance to Faerel to see that he was alert and ready then... "Now!" he hissed.

Simultaneously, the two of them moved their arms and pushed themselves upright once more. Mahanon felt a tingle over his skin as Faerel cast the barrier over them and he was glad that that spell at least was one he had mastered at a young age. They had only ran perhaps a dozen steps before a shout went up and once more they heard pursuit just behind them.

"The signal!" Mahanon reminded Faerel.

"Right!" he said as he cast a fireball and shot it up into the air.

The sight of it rising ever upwards before winking out of sight was reassuring to Mahanon; surely someone in their camp will have seen it and, even if they didn't realize who it was from, would send some hunters to investigate. It seemed to whip the Vints into a frenzy though; what had started as almost a laughing fun tone to their voices as they gave chase gave way to a frantic angry tone. Clearly they hadn't realized Faerel was a mage before now, his inability to master offensive magic serving a purpose for once.

Something whizzed past Mahanon's ear and he flinched when he realized it was an arrow. And then another. But it wasn't until he was practically thrown forward with a burst of pain in his back that he realized that maybe he had been wrong, maybe they were willing to kill them after all. As Mahanon lay on the ground gasping he could feel one of his lungs feeling with blood. It was a strange sensation and, while there was pain, he seemed strangely divorced from it. Then, what pain there was, eased and he was able to take an almost full breath. Healing. Faerel was healing him. Mahanon wanted to tell him to leave, that he was wasting time trying to heal him when even he knew that the wound was fatal, but he couldn't get the breath to form the words.

The healing only broke off when Faerel was dragged off of Mahanon. A rope dropped around Mahanon's neck and then he was lifted. What healing Faerel had managed to provide was rendered null and void as the rope tightened around his neck and pulled him to his feet, to his toes, and then lifted him off the ground. Choking, Mahanon reached up to try to grab at the rope, to releave the pressure off his neck. He could see Faerel fighting in front of them. Someone grabbed him and Faerel lashed out with his magic as he had never been able to do previously. He was fighting back, his magic burning and freezing whoever came close to him and, despite his own predicament, Mahanon couldn't help but feel a surge of pride for his lover. It had taken fear of death but finally he had found the will to harm those he had to, to protect those dear to him. He would be a good Keeper if he could survive this.

Mahanon's vision dimmed as he wasn't able to get breath in. Only for a second, he thought, though it could have been longer until he was dropped to the ground somehow and was able to suck air in. His throat made a high pitched wheezing sound, but it was air nonetheless. Faerel though, where was Faerel?

There!

Mahanon tried to crawl towards him. Faerel was on the ground, dazed, and his arm wasn't right, it had too many joints in it. Mahanon's limited breath was knocked out of him again as a booted foot thumped into his chest, pushing him into the ground. The rope that was still around his neck tightened and forced his head up even as his chest was flat to the ground.

"You'll want to see this," one of the Vints, the one standing over Faerel, said in thickly accented common. Gripping Faerel by the hair, the vint made sure that the two elves' eyes met, that they were both aware of each other, before he dragged a dagger across Faerel's neck. Faerel didn't make a sound and he didn't look away from Mahanon as he slumped to the earth, his life blood spurting from the wound in his neck. The same could not be said for Mahanon who screamed his rage. Mahanon was somehow free of the rope around his neck and had found his feet, though he wasn't entirely sure how. His first punch broke the nose of the one who had killed Faerel but that wasn't enough, not nearly enough. Without any more thought to escape or for his own safety, Mahanon rained down blow after blow into him. All too soon he was dragged off him and thrown to the ground. He had barely hit the earth before he was starting up again, but the other Vints were ready this time, easily overpowering him and holding him down. One of them said something, it could have been in common for all Mahanon knew, he was too enraged to pay attention, and another stepped forward with a warhammer. In a very matter of fact way, he used his booted foot to pin Mahanon's ankle to the ground then swung the hammer down.

Mahanon shrieked, then screamed again as, laughing, the warhammer man kicked his now shattered shin. Mahanon's vision dimmed once more, from agony this time rather than lack of oxygen and for a while he was aware of nothing. He wasn't unconscious, of course his body would deny him that luxury, but the pain made him unaware of what was going on around him. Vaguely he knew that they had moved Faerel's body but that was about it.

A few minutes, a few hours later and someone came over to where he lay. Without so much of a word of warning he was grabbed under the arms and dragged backwards. He was screaming again, his throat hurt, but he was unable to stop himself. When they stopped, he promptly turned to his side and vomited up his breakfast. The Vint who dragged him made a noise of disgust, but all Mahanon could manage was a low moan and to turn his face away from the mess.

Time passed, Mahanon had no way of knowing how long and, truly, he didn't care. Faerel was gone and even if he survived his injuries, which seemed unlikely, he faced slavery. The most he could hope for was that someone in his clan had seen the fireball Faerel had sent up, that the clan would move sooner rather than later and avoid these monsters all together. If that could happen, then maybe their deaths would mean something.

Some time later someone touched his shoulder. Mahanon flinched away and grunted with the pain that movement caused.

"Drink," someone said, and they put a water skin to his lips and tipped. Mahanon turned his face away, not wanting anything that might prolong his life. "Drink. You've lost a lot of blood, you need to drink," the voice tried again.

It was only then, with the second insistence, that Mahanon realized the person speaking wasn't using common, but elvish. "Faerel?" Mahanon croaked out, daring to hope that what he had seen had been nothing but an evil nightmare.

"No. Your friend is still dead. Pray he remains so," the voice said. Turning his head, Mahanon saw that it was so, this was an elf, but was not Faerel. He was blond as he was, but his hair was cropped short and there was a brand scar on his cheek that looked far too deliberate to be anything other than something to mark a slave. Mahanon's eyes was only on this new elf for a moment though before they were drawn to something behind him.

Faerel.

A low whine sounded, almost animalistic in its pain, Mahanon not even aware he was making it. The bastards had taken Faerel's body and staked it to trees. One arm was nailed to one tree, his other to another, his body stretched grotesquely between them.

The new elf, the slave, looked over his shoulder at what had captured Mahanon's attention and grimaced. He got up and went around the other side, ignoring the dried sick, and knelt next to him once more. "Look away from there, look at me," he said. Gentle fingers cupped Mahanon's chin and turned his face away from the grisly sight and back to him, back to the camp. "What's your name?"

Mahanon tried to focus, tried to concentrate on what was said, not the pain that wrecked his body, nor the horror that he had just seen befall Faerel. His name. He had been asked his name. "Lavellan," he replied. He saw no point in trying to hide his identity any more, but nor did he feel comfortable giving his first name. It seemed far too intimate.

The slave didn't seem to notice or care though, as he smiled what seemed to be a genuine smile at Mahanon's answer. "My name is Three," he said.

Mahanon frowned. "Three?" Perhaps he had heard wrong.

But the slave nodded. "My master just numbers his slaves. I was the third he bought so I am Three."

There was something inherently sad about that but, with all things considered, Mahanon just couldn't bring himself to care.

Three looked over his shoulder, seeming to watch the Vints and Mahanon closed his eyes, wishing unconsciousness would come but knowing it wouldn't. He opened them again when Three spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can help you escape. I've been ordered to stabilize your injuries so I'll need to splint your leg. I'll bring a stick you can use to help support yourself at the same time. It'll have to wait until after dark but I can keep my masters busy so you can slip away. I can't do much more than that though or they'll grow suspicious."

Mahanon frowned at that, trying to process it. "Why?" he asked.

Three shrugged. "You're Dalish. I am too, though I was caught before I got my valaslin. I can't get away, this," he waved a hand over the brand on his face, "will forever mark me as a slave. But I can try to stop others from joining me in slavery."

"You could... come with me. My clan... they won't mind your origins."

Three smiled sadly but shook his head. "No. If I do that they will only gather a force and find and attack your clan. My master likes me and won't lose me. But you're just one elf of average looks and one that possibly may not yet survive the journey back to Tevinter. You're not worth the risk of attacking an entire clan." Mahanon nodded slowly. He supposed it made sense and he would be a fool to turn down any attempt to try to get him out. If no one in his clan had seen the warning then he was the only warning they might have of the slavers camped nearby.

"Just... answer me one thing," Mahanon said.

Three looked over his shoulder once again, checking that the Vints were still not paying them attention. "Ask, then be silent."

"Why? Why kill Faerel? Why him and not me?"

"He was a mage," Three said simply. "Now hush."

A mage. Too difficult or dangerous to keep, Mahanon guessed. Faerel had always considered his magic a gift, something he was grateful for. It, combined with his knowledge and learning, earned him a privileged place in the clan as well as the ability to truly help people with his healing, something he loved doing. And now it had cost him his life. Mahanon's eyes felt hot, so he closed them. He drank when water was put to his mouth again and otherwise just tried to ignore the world. Logic said it was the best thing to do - if he was going to attempt to flee again he needed his strength - but in truth it was only because he felt little will to do anything else. Faerel was gone. Mahanon had failed to protect him. His leg was shattered to the point that he knew, even with healing, it would be a long time before his speed was back to what it was, if it ever was. If it weren't for the thought of warning his clan he probably wouldn't have even bothered trying to escape.

No. That was a lie. He would try and likely continue trying. Otherwise Faerel's death would be for nothing. But right now it helped a little to pretend that he didn't have to.

For the most part, Mahanon was able to ignore what Three was doing, though he cried out in pain when his leg was moved the first time. After that he just gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the mocking laughter the Vints directed at him.

By the time Three was finished, Mahanon was panting and covered in a cold sweat, but at least some of the pain in his leg had eased with the help of the supportive splint. How he would go walking on it he had no idea but he knew he had to try.

"I need you to watch me closely," Three said and Mahanon opened his eyes. "When I do this," he had his hand down by his leg and held out three fingers, "you need to go. Slowly first, quietly. Then when you can no longer see the camp fire go as fast as you can."

"And if they see me?"

Three shrugged. "They'll probably break your other leg. Or just kill you as being too much trouble. Either way, you won't have another chance."

Mahanon nodded. He reached his arm out and rested his hand on the stick Three had gotten him and then just waited, watching. The Vints seemed to almost completely dismiss him as they started their fires and settled around them with their dinner. After all, how much harm could he do without his weapons, not possessing magic, and with a broken leg. Mahanon watched as Three moved about the camp, talking with each of the Vints there. He even laughed with a couple and, though Mahanon couldn't tell what was said, it seemed that he enjoyed some privileged association with them despite being a slave.

The sun had well and truly set and full dark was upon them before Mahanon's eyes caught sight of Three making the pre-organized gesture. Mahanon sat slowly, taking his time and being careful not to move too fast lest he alert them or make some kind of noise. With the stick taking his weight, Mahanon was able to stand and even do so silently if he gritted his teeth to keep from making any kind of whimpering noise. He glanced around quickly and saw that, so far at least, his efforts had gone unnoticed. The Vints closest to him were facing away and those facing him were looking into the fire so were blinded. If he put most of his weight on the stick, Mahanon found that with the splint he was able to hobble away from the camp. Heart pounding in his chest, he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting the shout to go up, to hear them running after him, to hear something that would tell him they had realized he was escaping again. But nothing.

Mahanon was panting by the time he had finally lost sight of the campfires but now the hard part; sneaking had always come easily to Mahanon, but he had never had to run with a shattered leg before. Closing his eyes and clenching his jaw, Mahanon paused only long enough to take a deep breath and brace himself, before throwing caution to the wind and plunging forward as fast as he could. Which wasn't all that fast, but at least he was fairly sure it was in the right direction to where his clan had been camped. Every step was agony and every step made said agony worse and more pronounced. He couldn't tell where his foot was and with each step the pain shot all the way up his leg, even up into his hip. What started out as a headlong rush soon slowed to become a determined walk, then little more than a stubborn shuffle. Soon enough, sure that for now at least, Three's plan had worked and his leaving hadn't been noticed, Mahanon wasn't even sure if he was heading in the right direction. He just focused on putting one foot ahead of the other. Or rather step, hop, shuffle, step, hop, shuffle.

After what seemed like an age, he could see some kind of twinkling light through the trees, though he couldn't be all that sure whether it actually was his camp, was some shem town, or if, worst of all, he had circled around and come back to the Tevinter encampment. If that was the case, then all hope was lost anyway but despite that, he couldn't bring himself to call out, fear stilled his tongue. Forward. Move forward.

At some point Mahanon realized he must have stumbled. He was laying on his side on the ground, though he couldn't remember how he got there. And now that he was on the ground, getting up again just seemed far too hard. And so he crawled, dragging his useless leg behind him, his stick dropped somewhere behind him.

And then. "Mahanon?" A surprised voice, familiar, the lilting tones a comfort. A strangled sob escaped his throat and he managed a nod and then all was noise and movement. He was picked up - unable to stop the weak cry as the sudden movement hurt his leg - and hurried towards the camp. There were voices, questions, dozens of them, but he couldn't seem to focus on anything.

And then they were gone, and he was left inside an aravel with the Keeper and her second beside her.

"Who did this, lethallin?" Keeper Deshana asked quietly as she gently unwrapped the bindings around his leg. The second was numbing it for him so it was manageable, but she wasn't as skilled at healing as Faerel had been and had to concentrate to keep it up. Even then the pain came and went as her focus fluctuated.

"Vints. Slavers. Encamped by the river," Mahanon got out. "We have to leave. They got... they got... Faerel. Ir abalas, Keeper, I failed him." Mahanon rose a hand to cover his eyes then as he felt wet heat spreading over them.

Keeper Deshana was silent for a moment before saying, her voice very still, "What do you mean they got Faerel. Is he captured?"

Mahanon shook his head slowly. "They killed him," he whispered. Pain shot through his leg as the Second gasped, her focus lost, but Mahanon didn't mind. He took it as just payment for failing his friend and lover so drastically. "His body... they desecrated it," he murmured, unable to dispel that image.

"We'll send hunters to fetch it," Keeper Deshana said.

Mahanon shook his head. "Too many. Don't get caught," he said, his voice growing tight with pain.

"They'll be careful. Here. Drink this now and sleep," the Keeper ordered, bringing a cup of something to his mouth. Wanting nothing more than to hide from all the pain, Mahanon drank and slipped, finally, into oblivion.


	3. Prequel - Consequences

Mahanon woke feeling the aravel he was laying in lurch forward. He didn't know how much time had passed but it can't have been too long; he could hear those around him talking about Faerel. About how they had found him and how Mahanon should never have left him like that. It was nothing that Mahanon had not berated himself with anyway, but it hurt hearing it come from others of his clan. 

He closed his eyes again and slept once more. 

*

They traveled for ten days, never stopping for longer than was needed to allow the Halla to rest. Mahanon, for the most part, remained inside the aravel, unable to face his clan's judgement on his failure. He used the excuse that his leg still hurt to put weight on it. That wasn't entirely a lie; the Keeper had done all she could for it but that had been limited to ensuring that the bone was straight and the bone had started to knit together, enough to hold. He was forbidden from taking part in any hunts until the Keeper had decided it had healed enough to bare the strain that would be placed on it. 

That was bad enough, but what was worse for Mahanon was the fact that he had missed Faerel's funeral. The other hunters had recovered his body - the vints had moved on the following morning after a cursory search for Mahanon and the hunters had not followed - and brought it back to camp. Knowing they had to leave quickly to avoid the shem, they buried him where they had camped. While Mahanon was unconscious. A plain ironbark ring was all Mahanon had to remember Faerel with.

Sitting on the back of the aravel, he fingered the ring, turning it over and over. It was Faerel's favourite for its simplicity. His staff had gone with him, as was their custom, and his other belongings meted out to other members of the clan according to their needs, but to Mahanon had gone his ring. It was something that Keeper Deshana had given Faerel when he had become her First. By giving it to Mahanon the Keeper at least acknowledged how much Faerel had meant to him. All others muttered and glared at Mahanon for allowing their First to be killed and then desecrated in such a way, but Keeper Deshana did not accuse him, did not even bring it up. For the most part Mahanon was ignored, only those skilled in healing approaching him and only to see to his injuries. Now that the adrenalin of his capture had passed his body was awash in pain. His leg, of course, though it was much less than it had been. His back and chest where the arrow had pierced it. Faerel had healed the worst of the damage there, repairing his lung, but he hadn't been able to stop the more superficial damage. His left shoulder too was a mass of bruising, likely from where he had struck that tree. 

But more than the physical damage was the damage done to his heart, his soul. He had always known that he and Faerel could never be a proper couple but that didn't mean he had ever foresee it ending as it had. And the knowledge that it was because of him, because of his failure, just made that all the worse. It was his bleak moods more than anything else that kept others of the clan away from him. 

*

Ten days later Clan Lavellan struck camp with the intention of staying a while longer. They had traveled far enough that they doubted the vints would follow and those scouting ahead and behind had found no sign of human occupation nearby. 

Mahanon was building a fire near the Keeper's aravel when the first child sickened.

"Keeper! Keeper Deshana! Please, hurry, my Lillina is ill, coughing blood!" one of the halla keepers called, running to the keeper's tent. 

Keeper Deshana emerged from her aravel and Mahanon watched as she hurried off to where he could now hear a child coughing desperately. He frowned with concern but returned to what he was doing. There was nothing he could do to help that wasn't already being done but that didn't mean he wasn't worried; an illness could wipe out an entire clan if it were contagious. And quite a few of the youngest children and frail elders had developed a cough over the last few days. 

Unable to hunt and still not given any patrol duties, Mahanon instead finished what he was doing before going over to where Keeper Deshana was bending over a small girl with blood stained lips. "Tell me what to do to help," he said. The least he could do, he figured, was fetch water and the like. 

* 

Originally they had only planned to stay in this campsite for a week, two at the most. They were still there three weeks later. What had started with one sick child had spread to all the children. There were no more elders left alive and the last child was currently gasping with her last breath before Mahanon while he gently wiped her sweat soaked brow. What distrust and anger he had caused his clan by his failure towards Faerel had been forgotten in the wake of this new disaster gripping their clan. 

Hearing footsteps behind him, he looked over his shoulder to see Keeper Deshana approaching. "Keeper, you need to sleep," he said as she knelt beside him.

"Later," was all the woman said as she rested her hands on the child and poured healing magic into her. She shook her head. "I don't understand why it's not working. I can sense the sickness in them, but when I try to touch it with my magic it's like something pulls it away, prevents me from touching it."

"Please, Keeper. When was the last time you slept?" Mahanon pressed. Keeper Deshana had huge dark rings under her eyes and she had lost a lot of weight, her face appearing almost gaunt. Without Faerel's healing skills she was the only skilled magical healer they had; her second - well First now, but Mahanon was still not ready to reconcile that fact - was much more talented with offensive spells. 

Keeper Deshana shook her head. "I don't know. Two? Three days? It doesn't matter."

"It does," Mahanon said. "We need our Keeper and we need her at her strength. Please sleep. I promise I'll make sure you're woken if something changes. There are less new cases now than there were, hopefully we're towards the end of it."

Keeper Deshana nodded, but she didn't get up. Instead, she watched as the child they were kneeling by gasped, the time between each breath growing until, finally, she breathed her last. Keeper Deshana gave a sob seeing that and Mahanon saw tears streaming down her face. "The last one. She was the last of our children," she said, and that realization even brought tears to Mahanon's eyes. Clan Levallan was rudderless, much of their history lost when the last of the elders passed, and now their future damaged as the last of their children perished. 

"Kiarra," Mahanon called, drawing the attention of the Keeper's Second. The girl hurried over and, seeing the state her teacher was in immediately swung into action, drawing Keeper Deshana up and leading her to the aravel they shared. 

Leaving Mahanon to deal with the body of a child. Rubbing an arm over his eyes, knowing, hoping, he would have time to grieve later, he picked the tiny body up and carried it to where the others were laid out awaiting burial. 

*

"Mahanon."

Mahanon came awake with a gasp and sat, running a hand through his hair. He had fallen asleep by the fire and now there were twigs in his hair. He looked around for who had spoken and saw Kiarra standing nearby, watching him. When she saw he was awake, she said, "Keeper Deshana would like a private word with you."

Mahanon nodded and stood, stretching. Most of his injuries had healed now, though he still limped a little. That was more than could be said for at least a third of their clan. 

Mahanon knocked twice on the aravel Keeper Deshana was resting in before climbing inside it. The Keeper handed him a steaming mug of tea which Mahanon accepted with a nod of thanks, sipping it gratefully. 

"This plague, whatever it is, has decimated us." Mahanon nodded sadly. "Magic doesn't work on it. Conventional healing doesn't work." This was nothing Mahanon didn't already know but he let his Keeper speak. "Short of attempting to find a spirit in the Fade willing to help us, we can only turn to healing that we are as yet unaware of."

"The new cases have slowed. Maybe the worst is over and we will survive," Mahanon said, daring to hope.

But Keeper Deshana was already shaking her head. "It took our most vulnerable first and fast. It is still spreading, though finding it harder to take hold in healthy bodies in their prime. All I can hope for now is that the shem have some healing knowledge that we lack. Their Chantry has a lot of healers, perhaps there we will find something we have not yet tried." Mahanon frowned, an apprehensive suspicion growing. "I want you and Kiarra to try to find this cure."

"But that's madness!" Mahanon said. At the raised eyebrow his keeper gave him, he subsided a little but still stuck his ground. "I'm sorry Keeper, but it is. Your second... your First should remain with the clan in case anything happens to you. And my common is passable at best, why not send one of the hunters who often deal with the shem?"

"It is for her safety that I send Kiarra away, and not without a heavy heart. But so far she has remained untouched by this illness so it is my hope that by sending her away she will not contract it. Also, Clan Levallan's First holds a lot more authority than simply some hunters. And my decision to send you? Don't think I don't know what the others said about you after Faerel's death." Mahanon looked away at that, a familiar pain flaring in his chest at the mention of Faerel's name. "I know what he meant to you and I also know that if there had been any opportunity for you to save him you would have."

"I tried! Truly, I did I-"

Keeper Deshana cut Mahanon off by raising her hand to bid him to silence. "I know," she said. "But I was also hoping you would stand up for yourself."

"What was the point?" Mahanon asked bitterly. "They would have believed what they wanted anyway and it would prove nothing."

"I also suspected that that was why you did not. Which brings me to why I chose you to accompany Kiarra. You are skilled, or were before you broke your leg, and you will be again. But you also have something to prove. Not to the rest of the clan, I believe you have already done that in their eyes with how much you have helped since this whole ugly business began. But you have something to prove to yourself. That you can protect one of mine, that Faerel's death wasn't a failure on your part. And that is why I am sending you with Kiarra."

Mahanon was silent, staring into his cooling tea. Something to prove? He didn't think he had anything to prove, he knew he had failed Faerel, he couldn't prove he hadn't so he had nothing he could prove. He accepted that. But this was something his Keeper had asked him specifically to do for them. Regardless of her reasons for doing so, he could not say no.

"Where should we go? I don't know shem towns," Mahanon said.

Keeper Deshana smiled as though relieved that Mahanon had agreed. As if he would ever have said no. "There is a conclave, a gathering, of all the major powers to the south at a place they call the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Supposedly the ashes of some shemlen goddess was found there so the site is sacred to them. Even with how little you care about shem activities you must be aware of the mage-templar war that is spreading." Mahanon nodded. He knew of it, he had seen evidence of it and even witnessed a few skirmishes while out hunting before Faerel had been killed. Faerel had been far more interested in it than Mahanon was. "The shem's religious leader, a woman by the name of Divine Justinia, is holding peace talks at this temple, to try to end the war and prevent any more bloodshed. The most important and most powerful of all Thedas's nations will be there. It is my hope that among them, somewhere, will be someone who is able and willing to help us. And I need you two to find them."

Mahanon nodded slowly, trying to take it all in. He didn't know Kiarra all that well, she was older than he was, though only by a few years, but she had always resented Faerel and the fact that his magic manifested first so he became the Keeper's First. That, of course, had meant that Mahanon had to dislike her on principal though the truth was they just didn't associate all that much. 

"When do you want us to leave?" he asked. 

"You'll need to leave as soon as possible if you're to arrive in time. Tomorrow, if you'll be ready by then."

Mahanon thought about it and finished off his tea. The most important thing he needed were new daggers but there should be some in storage that would do - if his Keeper wanted him to leave tomorrow then waiting the weeks it would take to commission good new daggers would be out of the question.He would have to study a map, work out the best route remembering that he couldn't rely on stealth since Kiarra was travelling with him. They would also need to gather basic supplies but that shouldn't be too much trouble either. For the people he would miss... well he was closest with Faerel and he was gone now, the man who had taught him a hunter's skills was one of the first elders to succumb to the cough, and what friends he had had he had become distant towards since Faerel had been killed. 

Eventually, Mahanon nodded. "That should be fine," he said. 

The look of relief on Keeper Deshana's face was worth it. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I plan to move the clan up near Wycomb so you should be able to find us near there when you return.


	4. Prequel - Conclave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updated with actual prose. 
> 
> Mahanon and Kiarra travel to the conclave where they hope they will be able to find someone with the knowledge to save Clan Lavellan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got around to writing this chapter. It's a terrible info dump and I'm not happy with it at all. It will get a thorough edit and probably a rewrite later but for now it's NaNoWriMo and every word counts, even poorly written chapters such as this one. So, for now, I appologise.

Mahanon had, perhaps, packed more than he needed to. Not more than he could carry of course, he wasn't that foolish, but he didn't know what the hunting was like and, as much as Kiarra was a mage, he didn't know her or her abilities as well as he had Faerel's. It meant the pack he had strapped to his back was a little bulky, but since he didn't carry a bow it didn't get in the way too much. 

Mahanon had to admit, as much as he had always found Kiarra annoying in the past, her persistence was impressing him. They had been traveling for three days now, stopping only when it became too dark to see and rising when the barest light of a grey dawn was upon them. She only complained once, when they had to wade through a river that went up to the waist. 

"We should look for a better place to cross, somewhere shallower," she had said. "It's too dangerous to cross when it's this deep."

"What makes you think that?" Mahanon asked wearily as he started undoing the ties that held his pack to his back so he could move it and his daggers higher.

"The currents," she said, as if Mahanon were stupid and ought to know better. "That's why we follow rivers when we migrate, so we can find somewhere safe to cross."

"And who do you think is the one who finds those safe crossings?" Mahanon pointed out. She opened her mouth to argue further, then shut it again. The truth was she couldn't argue that it wasn't Mahanon because she didn't know. It was the hunters and pathfinders who found the ways that the aravels and hala could cross and picked out the path sometimes days ahead of the clan. "The clan moves slowly most of the time because it takes time to pick a path. We could probably find somewhere better to cross this river if we tracked up it. Or we might find a fast moving mountain river, shallower but more violent. Downriver it's likely to be slower, but also deeper and wider. This is probably not the best place to cross and if I were actually leading the clan I wouldn't take them this way. But I'm not leading the clan, I'm leading you. And it's safe enough for you to cross if you watch where you put your feet."

And so they had crossed and Kiarra had not complained since or tried to prove her knowledge to him. He got the feeling she had thought him a little slow before. Now though, with a small fire burning for warmth and comfort, she sat rubbing her feet. Mahanon suffered no such problems; he was always on his feet, always walking in all kinds of terrain. The soles of his feet were like leather now, as good as any shem shoe. Kiarra wasn't so lucky since she tended to stay close to the clan. Reaching into his pack, Mahanon pulled out a small container of cream and tossed it to her, saying, "Here." She caught it one handed. Mahanon smirked; she would have made a good hunter if her magic hadn't manifested. 

"What is it?" she asked, lifting the lid and smelling it dubiously. 

Mahanon was surprised at that. Maybe Faerel hadn't shared everything he learned then. Or she hadn't wanted to learn it because of jealousy. "You rub it into your feet," he said. "Faerel made it, worked out what would help and how to package it for travel so it would keep. It will burn briefly, especially since you're not used to it, but it will ease the aching muscles too. Hunters use it of a night when we cover a lot of ground so that we aren't sore and stiff in the morning and can continue at the pace. It won't work indefinitely, eventually your body needs rest, but it will work for a time." Mahanon paused, realizing he had said all this before, almost the exact words. He had been teaching a child who had shown promise in becoming a hunter. He had been of an age where many children received their valaslin but he had been too scared to declare himself ready. He was dead now, had died choking up bloody chunks of his lungs. 

"Faerel made this?" Kiarra asked, disbelief in her voice. 

Pulled back to the present, Mahanon nodded. "The first time he had any success with something to ease muscles it had been an oil. He tried bottling it, but by the next day it had all dried up." Mahanon smiled at the memory even as tears pricked his eyes. He blinked frantically, trying to drive them away. Faerel had been so proud of his creation and had wanted to show Mahanon first so had waited until he returned from a particularly long hunt to present him with the bottle as a gift. He had made a big show of it, talking it up, saying how much it would help. Mahanon opened the bottle to find it empty. He had risen an eyebrow at Faerel, wondering what the joke was, and when he saw that his precious oil had dried up his face had fallen, comically so. Mahanon couldn't help but laugh at the sight of him digging his finger into the bottle trying to scrape out any drop that might remain but finding some. "It was in there!" he was adamantly declaring. "Of course it was, lethalin," Mahanon would reply in an obnoxiously placating tone. 

"After that," Mahanon said, returning to his story to distract himself, "he worked on finding a way for it to keep longer without losing its potency. That was the result. I took a jar of it on a hunt to try it out and the others saw me using it and wanted to try some. So when we returned Faerel taught us how to make it. He was happiest when he was helping people," he said. 

Needing to distract himself from those dark thoughts, he took out a leather case from his pack, probably the bulkiest thing he decided to take with him, and unwrapped it to reveal a violin. Using a cloth, he began to rub it down, checking for any sign of damage that might affect the sound.

"You brought that? That's what was taking up so much room?"

Mahanon decided to ignore that; he wasn't sure he could answer politely and, no matter how he wished otherwise, Kiarra was the First with Faerel gone. Instead he focused entirely on his instrument, caring for it since it had been a while since he used it last, and then tuning it. Back resting against a tree, he lifted it and lightly drew the bow across it, testing first then just closing his eyes and playing. He did not fear any danger here and, while he would set up a watch between them, it was more to keep the habit than for any other reason. He played softly, the noise wouldn't carry very far, and it was soothing to him. 

For a time he was able to just lose himself in the music. Next to fighting, this was his favourite thing to do to unwind. 

"You're very good. Why don't you ever play for the clan? I don't even remember seeing you practicing or learning," Kiarra said.

"Larra taught me when we were away on hunts," Mahanon said. Larra had been the main hunter to teach him how to hunt, specifically with daggers. She had died several years ago from injuries taking in hunting a bear. "I play for myself, I don't like to perform," he said quietly. Larra had been the same, she didn't like to perform, though both of them had done so on occasion for the small hunting party they might be traveling with. 

"When we get back you should perform. You're good," she said. 

"I'll pass, thanks," Mahanon said flatly.

"Hmph," was all Kiarra said in response. Mahanon knew he was supposed to feel guilty, being asked to play for the clan when he wasn't trained in any lorekeeping was supposed to be an honour, Faerel had tried to convince him to do the same, but his playing was his, it was the one thing he didn't have to share with the whole clan. Not that he resented sharing anything of course, but this was something that was solely his and he cherished it. 

*

So their travel went; avoiding shem towns where they could, they travelled during the day and camped at night, Mahanon often playing, sometimes Kiarra would sing the songs she had been learning from the keeper, sometimes she would tell stories, recount the histories, almost as though they were traveling with the clan themselves. Finding a ship to take them across the Waking Sea was more difficult. Here Mahanon was forced to let Kiarra take the lead as she was far more diplomatic than he. Nonetheless, she was forced to hide her staff while they walked around the port town because of the violence against mages, even mages that were never part of any circle. 

Finally though, they actually managed to find a ship heading south that was captained by an elf. A city elf, true, but one that didn't really balk at their own origins. Standing at the railing, Mahanon absently twisted the ironbark ring about his finger. He wished Faerel were here. He had always wanted to see the ocean. Mahanon personally didn't care for it all that much, nor was he fond of the fish meals that were so prevalent in this area. For the most part he kept to himself, sitting by the back of the ship, watching the land he was most familiar with drift further and further away until he could no longer see it at all. Kiarra was another matter; she was happily mixing with everyone and seemed to see the whole thing as one big adventure. She was even open about where they were going and why. When Mahanon confronted her about it, she pointed out that this was what they were supposed to be doing, trying to find out if anyone knew of anything their clan hadn't tried that would cure the coughing sickness. As if he could forget, he just didn't trust these shems not to use knowledge of their weakness against them somehow. 

In the end, Mahanon simply left Kiarra to it. He was there to protect her, he figured, let her do all the talking. It's what she wanted to do anyway. 

*

A month of solid traveling later and they finally reached the site of the conclave. Traffic had been steadily increasing the closer they came, both foot and on horseback, and even a few carts. Not everyone was going for the peace talks though. There were traders and businessmen as well, along with their guards and personal assistants and servant. And where all these high and mighty people went, so too did the unwelcome tag alongs, the beggars and prostitutes, hoping to benefit from men being away from their wives or women away from their husbands. 

Despite all this chaos there was a sort of order; people tended to stick to their own so there was a clump of tents here flying one banner, and another over there flying another. Nor were the two of them the only elves either; other clans had sent representatives and it was there that Mahanon and Kiarra made their own camp, a little separated from everyone else but still close. No one there were invited to the peace talks, of course, but many clans were interested in how they would turn out and what that might mean for their people. 

Just as on the ship, Mahanon would have preferred to keep his own company - as it was there were far too many people around here for him ever to feel comfortable as he felt he had to watch every single one of them just to keep track of who may be a threat - but Kiarra moved between camps freely. Unlike on the ship, the people here seemed to show genuine concern for Clan Lavellan's fate and were willingly approaching both Kiarra and Mahanon to offer suggestions. Most had already been tried of course and if Mahanon wasn't sure he would refer them to Kiarra who had been far more involved in trying various treatments with the aid of her magic than Mahanon had been. 

Nonetheless, as uneasy as the sheer volume of people made Mahanon, in the evenings he was able to relax a little and enjoy some of the music and dancing he had missed in traveling. Kiarra tried once again to get him to play but he flatly refused. 

On the third day, Kiarra gently shook Mahanon's shoulder to wake him. He found her already dressed, her eyes shining with excitement. "Come on," she said. "The divine herself has heard of our clan's plight and wishes to speak to us about it, to see if she can help. An actual human who wants to help us."

Mahanon was more skeptical - surely the Divine would want something in return, some elven artifact or something most likely - but if that's what it cost to protect his clan, to bring a cure to whatever the sickness was that plagued them, then no price was too large. He dressed, checked that his weapons were there and in good working order (ignorring Kiarra's eye roll at the action) and followed her, never guessing that he was walking in to a cataclysm that would change the entire world.


	5. Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclave has been blown up and Mahanon is now the Herald of Andraste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I change some of the dialogue that occurs between the Inquisitor and Cullen for this chapter, but the results still remain the same.

Haven. An appropriate name for a shem town. It was no haven to Mahanon, quite the opposite. He felt as much a prisoner here as he had after he regained consciousness after the explosion. He had failed to protect another of his clan, another mage vital to Keeper Deshana and Clan Lavellan's survival. He had failed to find anyone at the conclave who knew anything about healing they hadn't already tried and even those they had yet to ask were all dead now. 

Kiarra was dead.

Faerel was dead.

Fifteen elders and children and two adults in their prime were dead, and surely more to add to that since he had been away. Still more as well now that he had failed so drastically. And these shems called him their Hand of Andraste, as though he were some kind of saviour. It was obscene. 

Mahanon looked down on the mark that scarred his hand. The pulses had slowed down now and it wasn't so painful any more. Closing the rifts hurt a bit but it was bareable and worth the pain if he was able to stop demons from spewing into this world. That, at least, was something he had yet to mess up. Well except the largest breach, but at least that was stable. Better than messing it up and destroying the whole world. He had closed two smaller rifts since his first attempt at sealing the breach and each time when he came back to make his report he found himself watching Commander Cullen's face, waiting for derision that never came. The others were always grateful with his successes, but Cullen just gave a nod, a small smile, and a "thank you". 

And despite himself, Mahanon found himself craving that approval. 

It didn't make sense, and he hated himself for it - he was a shem for pity's sake! He hated how much he enjoyed watching the man train with their soldiers and he hated the way he seemed to listen - really listen - whenever Mahanon spoke and suggested something. Faerel was the last person who had made him feel like that and that only made him hate the whole situation even more.

Kicking a lump of snow and getting absolutely no satisfaction from it, Mahanon left the training grounds where he had been watching said commander and strode over to the smithy. He had commissioned Harrit to make him a new set of daggers. The ones they had gifted him with after he had regained consciousness after the attempt on the breach were acceptable. Well, no. They were better than acceptable, they were exceptionally well made. It was that reason alone that had made Mahanon approach the blacksmith who had created them. The problem with them was they were made without his input so they had guessed at the weight and size and shape that he preferred. Now that he was awake and able to give input and direction it was better. And Harritt had been almost eager to try his hand at crafting an elven style dagger. 

"Ah Master Lavellan! You're just in time," Harritt called from inside the smithy, his voice too loud, used to shouting over the hammering of a much bigger smithy. Mahanon smiled a little; that was something he liked about this place, nearly everyone called him 'Master Lavellan' or 'my lord'. He didn't like being called Herald as much but even that was better than 'knife ear' or 'savage' or any number of other slurs he usually got from shems. He knew it was only because he alone seemed to be able to close the rifts but he supposed he should count his blessings while he had them. 

"They're ready then?" Mahanon asked as he approached and leaned against a wooden post, watching almost greedily as Harritt took one up that was already resting in its sheath and finished wiping the blade of the other with a soft cloth. In answer to Mahanon's question, Harritt handed him the sheathed one. Mahanon looked over it without drawing it first. Even though he wasn't a leather worker, it seemed as though Harritt had recruited someone who was since the sheath fit the knife perfectly and looked almost elven in appearance. Well, at least what shems seem to think was elven. There were vines and leaves stitched over it, decoratively without being flashy since the thread was almost the same colour as the leather. The hilt of the dagger was curved slightly and fit Mahanon's hand as though it were made for him, which, of course, it was. He ran his thumb over it and nodded in satisfaction at what he felt. The hilt itself was wrapped in leather strips which gave it a slight roughness and the leather itself was coated in a lacquer of some kind so that it wouldn't disintegrate with his hand's sweat or his enemy's blood. The lacquer did not prevent grooves and ridges from remaining prominent, however, as these would allow sweat and blood to be drawn away rather than making it slick and hard to grip, and it had been sanded slightly rough so where it did meet his skin was not slick or smooth. Drawing the blade, Mahanon was pleased with the initial resistance that then weilded to a smooth draw; that would stop the blade from falling out of its sheath but it still remained easy to draw. The blade itself shone. It was only iron - though Harritt had promised that, should the Inquisition find a good source of any other metal, he would remake them with a better alloy - but despite that there was still the shine that showed this was created by a master crafter. The blade was double edged and curved slightly towards the tip. Mahanon lightly touched one edge with his thumb and winced, perhaps a little sillyly, but he smiled as well. 

Taking the second one as it was handed to him and finding it just as good as the first, Mahanon shot a grin to Harrit. "It's perfect. Thank you," he said. 

"Aye well, it's not perfect. It would be perfect if I had something better to work with than crude iron."

Mahanon opened his mouth to answer, but a voice spoke from behind him, saying, "As soon as a source becomes available, I promise you'll be the first to know." Mahanon turned and felt a flush seeing the commander there. Though he told himself it was only because he had been caught so absorbed in admiring his new daggers that he hadn't heard him approach. He was supposed to be a Clan Levallan hunter, he wasn't supposed to be caught unawares when a hulking big templar walked up behind him! "That's a good blade," Cullen continued, talking to Mahanon this time. "Cassandra tells me you're quite skilled with it. Care to show me?"

Mahanon looked Cullen up and down, as though considering his worth as an opponent when the truth of the matter was he was just as curious to see the commander's skills for himself as the commander was to see his. "Alright," he said. "Though not with these. I'd rather not damage them them on armour before I have to. And besides, it might dent your shiney armour," he added with a small teasing smile. 

Cullen gave a bark of laughter at that. "Perish the thought," he replied and he led the way to where the rest of the Inquisition soldiers, few though there were, were training. 

"Thank you again. They truly are beautifully made," Mahanon said to Harritt as he slipped his new knives onto his belt, fastening them in place.

"You're more than welcome, my lord," Harritt replied, though he beamed with pride as he said so. Harritt was alright, Mahanon decided. For a shem anyway. 

Mahanon jogged to catch up to where Cullen was waiting for him. Cullen led him over to a chest that had wooden practice weapons in them. Mahanon took two out, but frowned at the holes he saw in them. "Termites?" he asked, raising an eyebrow to Cullen.

Cullen chuckled. "No, not termites." He reached into the chest and handed a cloth bag to Mahanon. It was surprisingly heavy. Opening it, he saw iron plugs, hundreds of them. "Put the plugs in where you want them so the weapon is weighted how you like."

Ah. That made more sense than termites. Mahanon slipped a few of the plugs in till they imitated the weight and balance of the daggers at his hip then stood, ready, both daggers held lightly but not too loose down beside him. Generally, Mahanon preferred fighting heavily armoured opponents as they always relied far too strongly on their armour and shield to protect them. They were slow, encumbered. But Mahanon had also seen Cullen fight and knew that he moved as though the armour he was wearing were normal clothes and his sword was nearly as quick as Mahanon's daggers. But nearly was all the advantage he needed. And... there! Cullen swung his sword outwards. Mahanon dodged to the side, his body twisting around the blade. His right dagger knocked the sword blade aside and he spun to the left where Cullen wasn't protected by his shield. Cullen expected it and turned as well, his sword moving with the parry and lifting once more. His shield blocked the overhead Mahanon tried, and Mahanon followed through by bringing his right dagger up, hooking it over the top of the shield and pulling it away. Before he could land a strike with his right, however, he was forced to defend once again against Cullen's sword. 

The two of them danced around each other, neither landing a solid hit, but both coming close enough that it kept things interesting. Cullen was grinning and soon, Mahanon found, he was too. It had been too long since he had been able to test his skills against someone who wasn't trying to kill him first. They had attracted quite a crowd from the normally training soldiers who had gathered to see their commander pitted against the elven Herald. 

Mahanon leapt back from a wide swing that narrowly avoided striking his stomach, landing heavily on his left and wanting to use that landing to push himself forward again. Instead a sharp pain stabbed his shin and he grunted and stumbled a little. Cullen instantly stepped backwards and lowered his sword. 

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice concerned.

"Not really," Mahanon said as he stood on his right foot, shaking his left leg a little to try to lose the stabbing pain in it. "But we probably should stop for now before I am," he added, though he was loath to admit it. 

Cullen took Mahanon's practice weapons and put them away, along with his own. The two of them then moved to the side where they could sit on the stone wall and catch their breath. 

"Commander!" A soldier wearing messenger livery ran up to them.

"Later," Cullen said, sitting on the wall next to Mahanon. 

"But-" the messenger started, but he wilted at a sharp look from Cullen. "I'll come back later," he said instead. Mahanon rose a hand to cover his smirk; what he wouldn't give to be able to order people around with a look. He waited until the messenger had left before turning to Mahanon. "Now that no one is listening, tell me true. Are you alright? I noticed you favouring that leg as we fought."

"I'm fine, truly," Mahanon said, pulling his pant leg up to show that there was no swelling or anything to worry about. It showed a number of unsightly scars from where bone had broken through the skin but otherwise looked normal. "I broke it recently, about a month before the conclave. Besides hunting for food, the first true fighting I've done since it broke was against the demons in the breach." He dropped his pants back over his leg, hiding it from view once more. "The cold makes it ache, that's all."

"Must have been some break," Cullen said. 

"It was," Mahanon said shortly, his tone and the stillness of his face making it clear that he didn't want to talk about it any more. 

Cullen watched him for a few moments more, as though debating whether to push the matter, then shrugged and said, "Well Adan is a skilled healer, though more of the alchemical kind. You should see him if it becomes a bother. As for me, I should probably find out what that messenger wanted." Mahanon visibly relaxed when Cullen didn't push him for the story behind that break. "Feel free to spar with me again," Cullen added as he pushed away from the wall. 

"I will," Mahanon said to his back. Cullen rose a hand in acknowledgement and continued walking.

*

Mahanon missed Faerel. It was like an ache in his chest he thought would pass but it just wasn't. He had been able to ignore it for the most part; it took all his focus helping the Inquisition close fade rifts, deal with the Chantry calling them all heathens (though in truth Mahanon cared little for that since the Daelish had been living without the Chantry for generations, but it was important to the shemlen), and attempting to stop the mage-templar war at least long enough to recruit some allies strong enough to help them close the breach for good. He hadn't had time to think about his clan beyond asking Adan for any cough remedies he knew of. That, at least, had yielded some results and Mahanon sent them with a messenger to give them to his clan. He didn't include a letter. He didn't know what he would write. By now Keeper Deshana would have heard what had happened at the conclave, heard that he was the only survivor of the explosion, and know that he had failed to protect another of her apprentices. He couldn't return. 

But Cassandra had asked about it, asked if he would return to his clan if he could, and he had answered yes. It was where he belonged, but he couldn't return just now. Only, he was sure she thought he was talking about his duties here for the Inquisition. He was partially - if he could do something to stop the disaster that had occurred then he couldn't walk away, he had that much integrity at least - but mostly he meant that he couldn't return with the deaths of two of the most important clan members on his hands. And of course thinking about his clan, meant thinking about Faerel. How the two of them would sneak off together to be alone, lay in the undergrowth just holding each other in the pre-dawn light, talking and laughing and joking. Mahanon missed him. And he missed that closeness they shared. All day, every day, he was surrounded by people but he was alone in all that mattered. 

"Care to share your thoughts?"

Mahanon spun around, but relaxed a little seeing Cullen there. Now there was a human who had Mahanon's respect. A good soldier and a good leader and a good man who genuinely cared for the men under his command. "How do you do it?" Mahanon asked.

"Do what?"

"Care so much for your men when you know that at least some of them will die. And die because of your orders."

Cullen reached up and ran a hair through his golden curls. Such a bright colour for a shem, Mahanon thought. Faerel had been blonde too, but his was a more platinum blonde. Cullen's was like spun gold. "If I didn't care about them, I would waste their lives," he pointed out. "It's because I care that I am careful and only send them where they have the best chance of victory."

"But you must have had to order some into a situation where you knew they would all die, to buy others time," Mahanon pushed.

Cullen frowned and simply looked at Mahanon for a long time, long enough that Mahanon averted his eyes. "What is it that's really bothering you?"

Mahanon leaned over the war table and picked up one of the pieces, fiddling with it. He had remained in the council chambers after their meeting, pleading some time alone to think. "Have your orders ever cost you the life of someone dear to you, dearer than life itself?" he asked quietly. He knew that he was answering a question with a question, but he couldn't just come out and say it.

"Their life? No. Their self respect yes. I'm unsure which would have been worse. Why do you ask?"

"How did you deal with it?"

Cullen gave a one shouldered shrug. "I moved on and so did they. Our paths didn't cross again. Are you going to tell me what is with all the questions?"

Mahanon sighed. Well, it wasn't like his and Faerel's paths were ever going to cross again. So then. Move on. Figuring, Cullen likely wouldn't answer any more of his questions without some kind of explanation, he said, "Before the conclave I ran into some trouble with slavers. My friend, my... my lover, tried to save me. He was killed. He died and I did not and that is the reason I was sent to the conclave. Well, one of the reasons."

Mahanon felt a hand on his shoulder and hunched a little at the contact, though he didn't pull away. "Your clan exiled you?" Cullen asked, disbelief in his tone but Mahanon was already shaking his head.

"No, not exiled. Just sent away. I could go back, I suppose, but there's really no need for me to return. Not yet." Not until he found something that was guaranteed to cure that coughing illness. "I'm just craving company I guess." A pause. "What about you? Do you have anyone special now?"

"Now? No. No, I don't really have time for anyone special."

Mahanon hesitated, then plunged on ahead. "I could be someone special, if you like," he offered, his voice quiet, staring intently at the war table as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. 

"I.. ah... heh..." Mahanon glanced over his shoulder to look at Cullen. He was red to his ear tips, a hand rubbing the back of his neck as though he had strained it. "Maker, how do I put this," he muttered. Mahanon looked away, already guessing what was coming. "I like you, you're a good person Lavellan, but we could only ever be friends. I'm sorry."

Mahanon nodded and straightened from the table. "Of course. I shouldn't have brought it up, I apologise," he said, slipping back into the formal tone he had used when they first met. "I should get going. Druffalo aren't going to rescue themselves," he said. He turned and walked past Cullen, not trusting himself to look at him. 

"Mahanon." Mahanon paused. "You'll find someone. When you're not still grieving, you'll find someone." Mahanon kept walking, leaving the Chantry, ignoring the crowds and greetings, and went out to hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I'm well aware that sillyly is not a word but it's nano and I couldn't think what else it was supposed to be so deal with it :D


	6. Enter The Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon recruits The Iron Bull.

The Inquisition was growing. Mahanon looked around Haven with a small amount of pride at what he had helped bring about. Things between him and Cullen remained awkward and strained but that only meant Mahanon spent more time in the field, helping the people he came across. He was supposed to go get horses for the Inquisition but the truth was he knew no horse could live up to what he was used to with his clan's harts so he put that off. Instead he had focused on hunting down notable people that his advisers recommended and recruiting them. Blackwall had been the first and Mahanon had taken a liking to the grey warden; he was always determined to try to do what was right even if it wasn't the most popular option. Mahanon liked that about him. Sera and Vivienne had been next. Mahanon liked Sera and her fun attitude and felt uneasy around Vivienne and her need to always keep up appearances.

Now though, they travelled to the Storm Coast. After leaving the Chantry and a meeting there, Mahanon had been approached by a mercenary who introduced himself as Cremisius. His Tevene accent immediately put Mahanon off but, surrounded by men and women loyal to the Inquisition and to him, he figured it was safe enough to hear him out at least. And he was glad he did. Cremisius's accent may have been Tevene but he clearly held no loyalty towards his countrymen since he offered Mahanon the chance to watch the so-called Bull's Chargers at work fighting vints on the Storm Coast. Mahanon had been intrigued; he still didn't trust this Cremisius, but he had never seen a Qunari before. For obvious reasons his clan tended to avoid Tevinter and any areas around there.

And so it was, for Mahanon's curiosity and to avoid the awkwardness he was forced to experience in Haven, Mahanon, Blackwall, and Sera were trudging through along a violent coast line through the rain, searching for the place they were supposed to see this mercenary company in action.

It was the sounds that drew them first. And there! Rounding the bend, they saw they were late, the fight had already begun. And right in the middle of it, huge axe swinging, was who could only be The Iron Bull. "Big," Mahanon muttered.

"O-oh yeah!" Sera rejoined. The two elves shot a glance and a grin to each other before charging off down the hill, leaving Blackwall to hurry after them.

Mahanon ducked and weaved around the Venatori; with the back up of Sera's arrows and Blackwall's sword and shield, Mahanon was more interested in wounding the enemy, of making them hurt and slowing them down, making them easy pickings for the others to take down. Only when he could do so with a single strike did he move in for the kill himself and even then he quickly danced away. The south was a lot more violent than home with his clan and what skills Mahanon had lost recovering from his broken leg he was quickly regaining. His leg still hurt in the cold, but it was warmer here and he was able to move about with ease.

Surprisingly quickly the last of the Venatori were dealt with and a cheer went up. Mahanon found himself smiling despite himself. The never ending rain washed the blood from his clothes and skin and the crashing waves washed it further away. Mahanon stood with his hands resting by his sides, daggers still lightly gripped in them, and his face turned upwards into the rain, just breathing, the smile still on his face. Always he had felt most alive with the adrenaline coursing through his veins and raised in the wilds with his clan he did not have the dislike of being wet that most other people seemed to cultivate.

"Hey there."

Mahanon opened his eyes and lowered his head (though only a little) to look at the qunari who was standing before him. Big. Definitely big. How he had crept up before Mahanon without alerting him, walking across the sand and shale no less, was a mystery of itself. Mahanon found his eyes moving up and down, taking in the qunari. He wondered if they were all this big or if this Iron Bull was a giant even among his own people. And wasn't he cold?

"Like what you see?"

"Oh yes," Mahanon answered without thinking, then blushed, cleared his throat, and came back to himself fully. "I see Cremisius wasn't exaggerating by claiming your band were the best. Though tell me, why travel with a Vint?"

"Who Krem? Ah, he's alright." Bull said, flipping a hand dismissively.

"Don't Qunari and Tevenes hate each other?" Mahanon asked. He hoped he didn't sound too ignorant but he wasn't sure how he felt about having Vints in his midst.

"Well sure, but Krem's not the whole of Tevinter. And there are too many of the bastards to hate them all individually. Don't worry, he's trustworthy."

Mahanon looked past Bull to where Krem was moving among the rest of the chargers, which included a couple of elves, Mahanon saw, and all seemed to treat him well. Not the treat him well because of fear kind either, but the mutual respect kind. He nodded then, accepting it. If this Krem was willing to work for a Qunari, supposedly his natural enemy, and be hired by the Inquisition then maybe he wasn't so bad.

"Alright. Let's talk business," he said, glancing at Bull before walking away a little. Not so much for privacy but so they weren't standing nearly on top of the body of a Venatori.

*

Back at Haven, Mahanon always tried to find time to talk to all his companions and those actually running the Inquisition. All except Cullen, who he still found it particularly awkward to be around. At least in the war council meetings Josephine and Leliana were there as well and conversation rarely strayed from what was important. And if either of they noticed they didn't say anything.

Varric was another matter entirely.

"So. You and Curly," he said one afternoon as Mahanon approached.

"What?" Mahanon asked, trying to pretend he didn't know what Varric was talking about, to bluff his way out of it. He should have known better.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. You're not a very good liar you know. It's that blush on your fine elven skin that gives it away." He was blushing, Mahanon realised. And of course that only served to make the blush worse. Much to Varric's amusement. "You used to make moon eyes at our dear commander and, now that things are so strained between you, you make moon eyes at a certain Qunari instead."

"I do not 'make moon eyes'," Mahanon spluttered, indignant. "I..." he sighed. "Yes I thought there might have been a chance for something to happen between us, but I was lonely and just wanted some company. And I got the feeling that the need may have been mutual so I asked. And was corrected. End of story."

"Surrounded by all these people and you were lonely?"

"Lonely for comfort, closeness, alright? Do you need me to spell it out for you?" Then an even worse thought occurred to him. "This isn't going to end up in one of your books is it?"

"Not with any identifying features, don't worry."

Mahanon groaned and stalked away, throwing his hands in the air in disgust even as he heard Varric chuckling to himself behind him.

Without meaning to, Mahanon's feet took him outside the walls of Haven to the place where Bull had staked out his own encampment.

"Hey boss," Bull greeted him. Mahanon nodded in greeting but didn't say anything in return, merely leaning against the fence behind them and looking out over the snow swept landscape before them. The walls of Haven always felt claustrophobic to Mahanon, more like they were built to keep people in rather than keep enemies out. Even though he had been given a house of his own, he only ever went there to sleep. It was Leliana who had arranged for it to be his own, thinking he would enjoy the use of a house to himself after 'living in such a small landship' as the shem called aravels. It was significantly larger than an aravel, but an aravel only needed to be large enough to sleep in, it wasn't like he spent any other time in it. As a hunter when the clan moved he usually scouted ahead or took up the rear or flanks. In fact the only time he had travelled in an aravel since hew as a child was when his leg was still healing. Consequently he treated his house in much the same way, returning to sleep and otherwise avoiding it.

"We should go hunting sometime. Just you and me around this area so that your spymaster doesn't think I'm stealing you away from them."

"Hunting with a Qunari? I can't imagine that would be particularly successful," Mahanon said with a teasing smile.

"Hey, I can be quiet when I want to be," Bull protested.

"Just not inconspicuous," Mahanon pointed out.

"Well yeah, but do you really think an the kind of game we could get around here would think it strange that a Qunari is hunting them instead of an elf?"

Mahanon laughed a little at that. "Point taken. So what do you prefer to hunt?"

"Dragons."

Mahanon spluttered at that. "Dragons? I don't think we'll find any of them around here. I hope not anyways."

"Na. The little ones maybe, but it's probably too cold for them. Your quartermaster was complaining about a lack of leather for tents. Figured it wouldn't hurt to help her out if you have some downtime."

Mahanon considered it. He was next scheduled to be sent to Therinfall Redoubt to deal with the templars and then to Redcliffe to find out what was going on with the mages. Life was soon to be all go and no rest so, he figured, why not do something he enjoyed? And from what he had seen, on the Storm Coast, Bull liked to fight as well, to lose himself in that rush. Who knows? Perhaps the Qunari also enjoyed hunting to the same extent that Mahanon did.

"Alright," Mahanon agreed.

"Great!" He pushed away from the wall. "Krem, if anyone is looking for us we'll be back by nightfall."

Mahanon's eyebrows rose in surprise at that - it was still only around midday! - and Krem replied, "You got it, Chief."

The two of them strode away from the walls of Haven not speaking and, as they walked, the sounds of civilization became distant as well. Mahanon felt a tightness in between his shoulders start to let go as he slipped into hunter mode. Heh, hunter mode. He hadn't thought of it like that for months now, perhaps longer. That was what Faerel had called it when Mahanon became intent on their surroundings, walking silently and carefully. Hunter mode. The corners of Mahanon's mouth twitched in a small smile. He could even recall that memory without the usual pain.

Pushing thoughts and memories of Faerel away, Mahanon entered his 'hunter mode' and focused instead on what was around him. He was keenly aware of Bull walking beside him; for such a huge person, he was walking surprisingly quietly. He had confided to him on the beach that he was Ben Hassrath, a sort of Qunari spy, so he guessed he should have figured he would be able to walk silently if he wanted to. But it was still a strange sensation; one expected that someone or something, anything, that large would make a lot more noise.

There were two herds nearby, one of elk and the other of druffalo. The elk would be the easiest to take down, Mahanon figured, and easier to carry back to Haven as well. With that in mind, he started moving down wind from the elk herd, drawing his daggers as he went. It would have been easier to hunt with a bow, of course, as most hunters did. But the fact of the matter was Mahanon was terrible with a bow. It had been yet another un-dalish thing about him that, for a while anyway, he had been mocked for. Then he became proficient enough with his daggers that he simply challenged anyone to defeat him with a bow while he used his daggers. After winning each challenge they soon let him be.

Mahanon stepped carefully on the snow, careful not to have it crunch underfoot, his stance low and cautious. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Bull had stopped and was leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, watching him. He rose an eyebrow to the Qunari, as though to ask if he was joining. Bull just tilted his head towards the elk, indicating he should go. With a shrug, Mahanon turned back to what he was doing and put the mercenary leader out of his mind. A few of the elk were aware of his presence and watching him cautiously but none showed any sign of alarm. Mahanon aimed to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Carefully, slowly, another step, another. He was almost there and still they didn't care. Bending low, Mahanon gathered his strength and leapt. He grabbed a hold of the elk nearest to him, knocking it to the ground and quickly drawing his daggers across its throat. It kicked a few times, and Mahanon winced as one hoof struck his hip, but he considered it fair and soon enough the elk weakened and died. The rest of the herd had scattered, of course, but that was alright. Normally Mahanon would only be able to take down one creature like this because afterwards the scent of fear and blood that clung to his clothing would instantly alert anything he tried to hunt.

He was just pushing away from the elk when he heard what sounded like Bull letting off a wordless warcry. His head shot up towards the sound in time to see that Bull had moved away from where he was standing before and approached the druffalo herd. Most had moved away from Mahanon when he had made his move, but there were some that remained. And one in particular, a big alpha male Mahanon thought, he was facing. The druffalo had its head lowered in challenge and Bull was in a low stance, arms down by his side with his hands open and facing towards the beast. His axe, the huge two handed thing he swung around as though it were as light as one of Mahanon's daggers, was laying in the snow several paces behind him.

As Mahanon watched the two charged at each other and, of all things, head butted each other! He could only watch in disbelief as they came apart to clash again. The third time they came apart, Bull ran backwards a few steps - never once breaking eye contact of course - and then charged again, this time he wrapped his arms around the neck of the druffalo and brought it to the ground. The two of them rolled over and over in the snow, kicking up clumps of it as they went and Mahanon stood and jogged closer to be able to see what was happening better. He arrived in time to see Bull get a solid grip on the druffalo around its neck. His muscles bulged and veins stood out as he squeezed and then, with an audible crack, the druffalo stopped moving.

Panting, Bull disentangled himself from the now limp body and stood, a huge grin on his face. "And that is how you hunt!" he declared.

"That was insane!" Mahanon exclaimed, though he too was grinning from ear to ear.

"Admit it. You're just jealous."

"Maybe a little," Mahanon said, still grinning. "Come on, let's get these back to Haven so they can be skinned properly."

"What's the rush? The druffalo will keep in the snow and elk is mighty tasty cooked over a fire," Bull pointed out.

What was the rush, really? Mahanon had no real desire to return to town and his responsibilities. There were no scheduled war council meetings he was required to attend and even though he was supposed to be preparing to leave for Therinfall Redoubt soon, he had very little that actually took time to prepare - normally he just gathered supplies on the morning he left and just... leaves.

"No rush. You're right. No need to go back right now," he replied.

"Great! I'll get a fire going and you can put those knives of yours to good use," Bull said, dragging the druffalo by the leg and getting his axe, swinging it up with the other hand and resting it on his shoulder.

"It's a dagger, not a knife," Mahanon said indignantly, but he was still smiling and he returned to where he had left the elk anyway.

The two of them made a small campsite of sorts in short order, a merry fire going, a fallen log dragged over for them to sit on, the druffalo corpse covered in snow behind them, away from the heat of the fire, and the elk partially skinned and butchered. They had made use of some straight sticks to use as skewers and there was now the hearty smell of cooking meat, dripping fat, and smoke from the fire wafting over them.

"This is nice," Mahanon said as he turned the skewer a little. "Could almost forget about the whole tear in the sky spitting out demons thing."

"Don't need to worry all the time, or worry's all you have left."

"Mhm," Mahanon agreed. He had a feeling such moments like this would soon become few and far between so he wanted to take everything in as much as possible. Bull seemed to sense this, perhaps even share it, as he sat next to him in silence, merely poking the fire with a stick more for something to do than because it needed it.

Once the meat was cooked, Mahanon handed the larger piece to Bull - he was bigger, he would need more - and asked, "Do you normally hunt bare handed?"

"Na, that was just for fun. If we hunt for food one of my boys who are actually good at that sort of thing do it." He tore into the meat and Mahanon followed suit, taking a bite of his own. It was cooked well, though somewhat lacking in refinement. He would have preferred to add some of his spices to it, but he didn't want to go back to Haven to get them - that would have been beside the point of staying out here in the first place. "Hunting is supposed to be fun. Taming the untamable, that kind of thing."

"Hunting is always a necessity within my clan," Mahanon said. "We hunt for food and supplies that we make from bones and hides and the like. But otherwise we try not to waste anything. Our clan traded with the shem more than most clans so that meant we didn't have to store salted meat for winter as well, and we could supplement our food with things like bread." He smiled. "I like hot bread with butter melted over it, was one of the few things I would look forward to going into a shem town."

"You dalish don't have bakers, do you," Bull said around a mouthful of meat.

Mahanon shook his head. "Not like the shemlen. We would grind seeds and mix it with water into a kind of paste. That could be cooked on a stone in a fire and be used as travel bread, but it wasn't very tasty." He gave a small laugh. "Faerel used to tease me because I would only eat the stuff if I could find some honey to cover it in. Failing that I would rather go hungry."

"Faerel was important to you, huh," Bull said.

Mahanon fell quiet. It wasn't a question, Bull must have heard something in his voice to give that away. "Yes," was all Mahanon said.

"You broke up?"

Mahanon looked to Bull, studied him almost, but the Qunari was more interested in eating his meat than watching Mahanon. His tone was even, as though this were an every day conversation, like how strangers might comment on the weather. "Why do you want to know?" Mahanon asked suspiciously.

"You're one of the leaders of the Inquisition. Among the Qunari leaders aren't chosen for their brawn, or their brains, or anything like that. It's how well they make the hard decisions and live with the consequences. You and the commander have a wall between you, that's one of four leaders put offside. I want to know what kind of leader you are, if you'll live with consequences but make the decisions anyway."

"What does this have to do with Faerel? And what do you intend to do with the information, put it in one of your reports?" Mahanon demanded.

"Probably," Bull said with a shrug. "As for your friend, it probably has nothing to do with it. Won't know unless you tell me."

"Is this the real reason you asked me to come hunting with you? So you could pry into my history?" Mahanon said, completely put offside now.

"Na, that was just fun," Bull said. He sounded completely oblivious! "You looked like you needed the break and I wanted to have some fun."

Mahanon grunted. That was true enough, he supposed. He was silent, staring into the flames. Part of him wondered if Bull would give up if he just didn't answer. He doubted it. Oh, he would likely not bring it up again today, but then there was always tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. And then he would probably turn to Leliana who Mahanon was sure already knew everything of his past. At least here was private, he supposed.

"We didn't break up," Mahanon said quietly. "I got him killed. I seem to be good at getting people I'm supposed to protect killed. I was angry about something, I don't even remember what now, and stalked off to be alone. He came after me and we ran into some Vint slavers. Faerel was our First, an apprentice Keeper, a mage and a good one, though he was most skilled at healing." Bull grunted at that and Mahanon smiled. "I know what you Qunari do with your mages and I guess I can understand that in a way. But if Faerel had been born under the Qun he would have taken his role and found joy in what he could do for others. He was just that sort of a person. Though it got him killed."

"Let me guess. You tried to fight to hold them off and told him to run. Either he flatly refused to, or he started to but then you got hurt and he came back. You both got caught and, cause he was a mage, they killed him."

Mahanon blinked. "Yes," he said. "Exactly that." It was said so matter of factly, as though it were a summery to a short story instead of something that had changed Mahanon's life for the worse. Though a part of him was relieved that Bull had guessed it; it saved him from needing to recount it. "How did you know that?"

"I've been around, heard how slavers operate around Dalish. I could guess," Bull said with a shrug. "So how'd you wind up here after that?"

"I was sent to the conclave with our Second. And then she died along with everyone else there. And now I'm here. So you tell me if that makes me a good leader or not, if everyone I'm supposed to protect dies and I run away here."

Bull gave a shrug and tossed the bone into the fire. "People die. If you were needed with your clan but chose to be here instead that's running away. It's not running away when you're more needed here." He stood and stretched. "Come on, we should get back."

Mahanon remained sitting and stared at Bull. "What, that's it?"

"That's what?" Bull ask, his voice confused.

"You want to know my whole tragic past and your response is 'People die'?" Mahanon said, doing a fair impression of Bull's tone, he thought.

Bull laughed with what seemed to be genuine amusement which only caused Mahanon to bristle. "What did you expect, cuddles and fluffy bunnies? Come on. We take these back to the quartermaster then you can beat it out of me. If you can hit me," he said with a teasing.

Mahanon grunted, leaned over and grabbed a rock before throwing it with all his strength at Bull, hitting him square in the chest. It only served to make him laugh more but it made Mahanon feel a little better.

They kicked snow over the campfire to smother it and Mahanon took what remained of the elk and slung it over a shoulder while Bull simply took up one leg of the druffalo carcass and dragged it along behind him. Arriving at Haven, the two of them received quite a few stares. Well, Bull got the stares; an elf carrying a hunted elk wasn't that unusual, but a Qunari dragging a druffalo is definitely not something one sees every day.

As they approached the gate, Krem goggled at them.

"Oh Chief, you didn't try to wrestle it again, did you?" he said.

"Try? He didn't try, he succeeded," Mahanon said while Bull stood over the body, fists on his hips, chest out, a huge grin and looking proud of himself.

Krem groaned and held a hand to his shaking head. Mahanon's foul mood alleviated a little with that scene, reminded again of how The Iron Bull had crash tackled a druffalo to the ground with his bare hands. For fun. If that made it in to one of Varric's books it wouldn't be believed, it was so ridiculous.

"Come on, let's get these to the quartermaster before word starts to spread that the Inquisition is nothing but an army of clowns. If it hasn't already," Mahanon said with a weary shake of his head, leading the way.


	7. Therinfal Redoubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon attempts to rescue the templars and only narrowly averts a disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've nearly entirely used a section of the game for part of my story so hopefully it's not too boring. I've changed some parts and not bothered to rehash the dialogue exactly as it happens in an attempt to keep it fresh. I'm not happy with Cole's voice but it's nano, I'll go back afterwards and change it. This is also probably the longest of my chapters to date so I hope you enjoy it.

A spray of blood splashed Mahanon's face as he slid his dagger across a Templar's throat. No, not a just a Templar, a red Templar. These were different, barely human any more. It made killing them somewhat easier; not because Mahanon had any problems killing shems, but because most of them seemed to lose their human tactics. Though, of course, they did seem to make up for it with an incredible stamina far beyond what any normal living being should have.

Dancing away from the body and another who came at him, Mahanon winced as an arrow scratched his shoulder. He cast about to look for the archer in time to see one of Sera's arrow destroy the red Templar's face.

"Boom! Arrow in the face!" she shouted.

Mahanon saluted her with one of his bloody daggers briefly before coming up on another Templar's blind side that was currently engaged with Bull. The leader of the Chargers was well and truly paying for himself with the skill with which he destroyed any in his way with that huge double headed axe of his. The ice rune on Cassandra's sword activated and froze another and, with a solid kick from Mahanon, he shattered into a thousand icy, bloody chunks. Brutal, but effective. All the while there were shouts of this 'elder one'.

"Fenendhis! What the fuck is this elder one?" Mahanon growled as another Templar was heard shouting the name again. No one answered, but he didn't really expect them to; he was just venting his frustration at not understanding what was going on but being forced to fight for their lives anyway.

They had come to Therinfall Redoubt to try to recruit the Templars to their cause. Mahanon thought that it would be easiest to come here first since, technically, the mages were all criminals so moving a large number of them from Redcliff to Haven would attract trouble. He thought if he could get the Templars on board first, then the Inquisition, with a few select Templars, could go get the mages as well and then they would have an actual realistic chance at closing the breach.

Instead it had all turned to shit. The Templars had turned on their own under the influence of red lyrium, the same stuff Varric had warned them about when Mahanon had first tried and failed to close the breach. But there were still some who had yet to be turned so now they fought to try to protect those. At least then they could have some Templars join the Inquisition. Some was better than none and hopefully once they recruited the mages that would be enough.

_"Prepare them. Bring them to me."_

"Who said that?" Mahanon asked.

"I didn't hear anything," Cassandra replied. They were all looking at him strangely now. Great. Mahanon made a mental note to keep all comments about strange disembodied voices to himself lest the others think he had totally lost his mind.

They fought on, continuing through the Templar's keep, all the while Mahanon grew more and more agitated, both as they continued having to kill good soldiers who should have been able to help them close the breach had they not been so infected with red lyrium, and from the continuing voice he heard in his head.

_"You will be so much more."_

Mahanon growled as he only narrowly missed being gutted by another Templar, distracted by that voice.

_"I would know you."_

He would know Mahanon, would he? Well, Mahanon planned to give... whatever it was that was distracting him plenty to know about him. First and foremost his skill with daggers!

_"The Herald of Andraste, it's time we became better acquainted."_

They were approaching the stairs to the keep now and Mahanon no longer had any doubt that what he was hearing was definitely in his head. It was directed at him, specifically for him. Maybe it had something to do with the Lord Seeker; it would match in with how he had been particularly interested in meeting Mahanon himself. Not Cassandra as a former seeker, nor anyone else from the Inquisition, but the Herald of Andraste Mahanon Lavellan by name and title. That revelation had been a little uncomfortable for Mahanon who was more used to hiding in the shadows than being drawn into the public's eye even if he knew there would only be more of it as his mark closed rifts all over Thedas.

Climbing the final stairs to the keep, the four of them plus the Templars they had helped approached a man with his back to them.

_"What do you think to accomplish? What will you become?"_

The man spun around and grabbed Mahanon before pulling him backwards, the movement too fast for the elf to dodge. And then light, blinding light.

*

Mahanon felt as though he were walking through a dream, an especially vivid dream. As far as the eye could see were bodies burning in postures of unending agony. And... it was familiar. The conclave, he remembered. The explosion. There had been a few remains still that looked like this but most had crumbled away to ash. This looked as though the explosion had only just occurred mere seconds ago.

Walking around the bodies, trying his best not to catch them, not to step on any that had fallen, Mahanon's mind reeled. This couldn't be real. This couldn't have been what had happened. If he had been here when the explosion occurred then he would have been just another unidentifiable charred corpse.

No, not all of them were unidentifiable, Mahanon realised. Most were, and in some ways it said something that, in death, the only difference between the races were the size of their bones. All other distinguishing features - pointed ears, horns, beard, hair colour and styles - all of it was burnt away. Sometimes though, there was some twisted and melted jewellery that gave hints as to who or what the body may have been in life.

There. There was a body that was probably elven. Perhaps a human child but, Mahanon thought, most likely elven. And another one laying near it. Her, he thought; there was a necklace about her neck that was, or had been before the heat destroyed it, distinctly feminine. And familiar. He gasped when he recognised it and thus the owner.

Kiarra.

As he approached something started moving in the ash on the ground. A body began to rise. Mahanon grabbed for his daggers only to find they weren't there; he was defenceless. The body got its feet beneath him and stood. Another elf, he thought. Not quite as badly burned as the bodies around him; there were bloody cracks over the skin and patches of burned hair on its head. The being turned and Mahanon readied himself to flee (though where in this endless place he had no idea). The face. That face was not normal! The eyes were glowing purple.

_"She's dead. And it's your fault."_

That voice again! "I didn't cause the explosion!" Mahanon protested.

_"You were to protect her. You failed."_

"Yes, but there was nothing I could have done!"

The creepy burned body laughed and with a popping sound vanished. Then every body around him did the same thing, leaving him in a kind of twisted forest.

_"I would know you. Everything about you."_

"Then come face me!" Mahanon demanded. He felt naked without his daggers, but he hated not having anything to face even more.

_"Everything tells me about you. Everything you do or don't do."_

Mahanon growled and stalked forward. Well, he assumed it was forward. It was impossible to tell really in this never ending landscape. Walking through the trees he found a door standing between them. Cautiously, he approached it. There were no walls holding it up, so he looked around it. Nothing but endless forest the same as he had been walking through. Reaching forward, hesitating only a moment, Mahanon thrust open the door but then leapt back. He needn't have bothered; nothing came out at him. Instead, looking through the doorway he could see a stone room. Mahanon frowned and once more looked around the door - much like a cat encountering a mirror for the first time, he thought - but there was still nothing on the other side but forest.

Not knowing what else to do, Mahanon shrugged and walked through the door. He spun about when it was slammed shut behind him and, as much as he rattled the handle, it wouldn't open again. Oh well, best he move forward then since there was clearly no going back. Hopefully his only way out of whatever this was hadn't been sealed by his choice.

Before him a scene had been set up to imitate the war room in the chantry at Haven. Cullen, Josephine and Lelliana were there, as was the burned and blackened corpse. Mahanon watched as his friends spoke to the creature as though it were him, realizing then that what he was seeing was a farce, a pretence. Or... was it showing the future? No! He wouldn't do the things it claimed to be doing!

"Stop this! I would never do that!"

 _"Stop this! I would never do that!"_ Laughter.

Mahanon gritted his teeth and pushed past the scene that continued to play out, trying to ignore it. There were other doors and Mahanon picked one at random. The demon, because that was what Mahanon was sure that it was, continued showing him scenes of cruelty and depravity. It was as though it had tapped into any lingering hatred or distrust of shems and amplified it, showed him using his power as the Herald of Andraste to systematically take down every human power structure in Thedas and put his Inquisition soldiers in place instead. But while the fantasy may have been legitimate, the fact was he could never carry out the cruel acts that would bring it about.

Room after room showed all kinds of depravities, things he could never have dreamed of. But then, perhaps he could have dreamed of them. There was no way any outside force could know of Kiarra, he had only mentioned her to Bull and never with such detail as to know about the necklace she wore. And yet this... this thing had not only known about her but known that he had been charged with protecting her, that he felt guilty for being unable to do so. So that could only mean that whatever this thing is had gotten into his head. It knew his thoughts and feelings. Did that mean that all of this was actually possible within him?

As he saw yet another scene played out before him, one of Josephine locked up, being starved of food and water, slowly weakening, he couldn't help but wonder, what if all of this was actually true? Mages were warned against possession, what if the very thing they had been warned against had happened to him? What if this was what it felt like to be possessed and he was actually watching what some demon did with his body?

Opening another doorway, dreading what it would show him but not knowing what else he could do he was faced with a room turned all wrong. There was no one in here, thank the Creators, but there was furniture hanging from the ceiling, attached to the walls. It confused Mahanon, made him unsure if he was actually walking on the ground or if what he thought was the ground was actually a wall or a ceiling. He groaned and clutched at his head as it gave a painful throb.

"Envy hurts you, is hurting you, but you don't have to let her."

Mahanon spun around, the sharp movement making him dizzy, and made to draw daggers that weren't there. There was a boy there but no one he recognised. He laughed then and even to his own ears it sounded almost hysterical. "You must be running out of ideas and memories with which to torment me, demon. I haven't even seen him before," he said.

"Neither has Envy. I'm not a demon. I want to help you."

Mahanon frowned. That didn't sound like the voice from before. He sounded almost real. "How can I be sure you're not a demon?"

"I don't know. But I'm not a demon. I am Cole. I can help you, if you'll let me. I want to help you."

Mahanon closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. What did he have to lose, really? If all of this was real then it was all lost anyway.

"It's not real. Envy wants to know you, knowing, needing to know, and then become you. You can't let her."

"Alright," Mahanon said, not wanting to know how this boy had known those were his thoughts if he wasn't a demon. "What do I need to do?"

"Keep moving, onwards, upwards. It becomes harder for Envy to keep up, to make more and more and more. Your will is stronger, you can change things. Then she'll let go. Maybe."

"Maybe?" Mahanon sighed. Maybe was the best he had right now. "Alright," he said, and he followed Cole out of the room. There was gushing fire ahead. Cole told him to make it water and he did. It was then that Mahanon realized that he could control what was around him at least to some extent. And, more than that, it seemed to really piss off Envy.

Mahanon came to a door, willed there to be ascending stairs behind it and opened it to find just that. He smiled a grim smile to himself and started climbing. He didn't know where Cole was now, he had vanished, but he could still hear his voice in his head, encouraging him, reminding him that none of what the Envy demon showed him was real, that it didn't have to be that way if he didn't want it. Without Cole's voice of reason Mahanon was sure he would have descended into madness by now.

As he climbed ever upwards, Mahanon's vision started to change. Colours, once vibrant and almost overpowering, became dulled, grey. There was an inky blackness at the edge of his vision. Not the fuzzy blackness one might see before passing out, but something else. Almost like an indistinct dream. Mahanon took it as a sign that the demon was tiring just as Cole had predicted.

"Keep going, you're almost there," Cole encouraged, eliciting a roar of frustration from the demon as it was forced to make ever more and more scenarios for Mahanon to witness. His surrounds were now the same as the keep they had just been fighting through; clearly it was easier to pull this from Mahanon's memory rather than create something entirely new.

And then he was standing before the double doors where he had been when this all began. A bright blinding light flashed as the world around him melted away.

*

Mahanon came back to himself with the Lord Seeker holding him up against the doorway by his throat. Hammered by memories of another time he had been choked, Mahanon flew into a frenzy, clawing and kicking, forgetting that in this world he had his daggers. It was a furious head butt that broke the Lord Seeker's hold on him though. Mahanon, still enraged, was about to charge at him once more - his companions staring at him open mouthed - when the Lord Seeker's form changed. Shards of wood were blown inwards as it burst through the doorway, past Mahanon, and its true form revealed: that of an Envy demon.

Mahanon hadn't seen many demons before, only those he had fought those that fell from the breach before it was stabilized and the ones that came from rifts, but none of them looked like this. He decided that, of the demons he had thus far encountered, the Envy demon was by far the creepiest looking of them all.

"Lord Seeker Lucius!" Cassandra exclaimed.

Mahanon was about to round on her for siding with a demon, but then realized that what he had experienced the others had no way of knowing. To them it would appear as though the Lord Seeker had just vanished and a demon stood in its way. Mahanon knew better. "No," he said as the demon fled. "An Envy demon impersonating him. It wanted to impersonate me, that's why it was so interested in having me come here." Bull grunted in distaste, a distaste Mahanon shared, but he didn't respond to it. Instead he looked around. "Cole? Has anyone seen a boy appearing around here? Blonde, large hat?"

"There's no one here but us," Cassandra said. Great, Mahanon thought. Yet another reason they would likely all think him crazy. Maybe he was, but he had a feeling that what he had experienced was real which meant Cole was real as well.

"Forget it, let's go," he said, leading the way through the doorway. The demon had erected barriers across the entrance to the courtyard where it had fled to but Barris assured them that they were no match for Templar magic, so long as they could find the veterans and some lyrium. The Inquisition members set out to find them, while the surviving Templars held the hall.

*

The barriers were down and Mahanon approached cautiously, knowing what they would be fighting but having no true idea on how tough the fight would be. Sure enough, there in the courtyard, was the grotesque form of the envy demon. Mahanon glanced to either side to ensure that his companions were ready and blinked with surprise when he saw Cole standing beside and behind Sera, twin daggers in his hands, staring intently at the envy demon as though waiting for them to make their charge. A quick look at the others showed that they hadn't seen him and, though tempted, Mahanon decided not to say anything yet; if he really was going insane he wasn't about to call attention to it right before what he was sure would be a difficult fight.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Mahanon let a calm descend on him, then gave a nod to Cassandra. She led the charge towards the demon, shield first, a deafening war cry drawing its attention. Bull was next, and Mahanon. Somewhere behind him Sera was taking up the best position for her to use her bow with deadly accuracy.

Mahanon dodged the flying limbs, positioning himself behind and on the flank as much as possible, his daggers darting in and out, the wounds superficial, shallow, but painful. Out of the corner he could see Cole doing the same, though he tried to ignore him and what his presence may mean and focus entirely on the fight.

The demon let out a vicious screech, so high pitched his ears barely picked it up but loud enough to hurt. Mahanon clapped his hands to his ears, defence forgotten, and saw those around him do the same. A concussive wave blasted out, throwing the four of them outwards and to the ground. Sera was the only one still standing and she continued to fire arrow after arrow, always moving so she wasn't an easy target. Nonetheless, as the only one still attacking the demon it turned its attention to her. She leapt backwards, firing arrows as she went, and shouted, "Oi, get up already!"

Mahanon stood and shook his head. He could see the others doing the same and then they once more charged the demon, attacking on all four sides, hemming the demon in, Mahanon behind, Cole to its left, Bull to its right, Cassandra to the front, her shield taking the brunt of the hits, and Sera shooting for its head which towered above them all.

They were wearing it down, Mahanon was sure of it. Of course, they were also tiring as well. It had scored a bloody claw mark down Bull's chest - why he insisted on wearing no armour Mahanon would never understand! - and Cassandra was struggling to hold her shield up after taking several solid blows to it.

Another screech dazed them all again but this time, instead of going after Sera as it had last time, it turned on Mahanon while he was still trying to get his head to stop ringing. It gripped him with it's long fingers around his narrow waist and picked him up as though he weighed nothing. It tossed him overhand and Mahanon had just enough awareness to know that he was flying through the air, his body rotating, and that that pillar was coming towards him awfully fast before he slammed into it face first.

*

The taste of blood was the first thing he became aware of. It was running down the back of his throat and he coughed weakly, trying to dislodge it.

"Herald, can you hear me?"

Mahanon opened his eyes and blinked a couple times. Blood ran into them stinging and tinting the world red and he rose a hand to wipe it away. His whole face hurt so that he couldn't tell one pain from another, couldn't tell how bad any of it was. Then he remembered. There was a fight going on!

With a gasp, he sat up. "The demon-" he started but Cassandra held a hand to his shoulder, preventing him from getting up fully.

"It's dead. We killed it not long after you got knocked out," Cassandra reassured him.

"Here," Sera said, squatting in front of him and handing him a potion, one of Adan's handiwork Mahanon noticed. "You need it more than I do, your face looks like shite."

Mahanon grunted and decided he didn't really want to know what he looked like. He took the potion and drank it, grimacing at the bitter taste, but it did help ease the pain in his face. He looked around and, while he couldn't see Cole any where, he did see Bull pacing back and forth, muttering something he couldn't hear under his breath, and occasionally still swinging his axe around. "Is he alright?" Mahanon asked.

Cassandra glanced over at Bull and said, "I think so."

"He's just pissed. You should have seen him when you got tossed aside. He went into a rage and he swung that axe like it was one of your little knives, phowah!" Sera said.

"Daggers," Mahanon corrected wearily but he was ignored. He held a hand out to Cassandra who helped him up before approaching Bull cautiously. "Bull?" he called out when he was closer but still remaining outside of swinging range; he'd suffered enough damage, he didn't need to be whollopped by an angry Qunari.

This close he could hear some of what Bull was saying, though it seemed to mostly consist of variations of "Fucking demons, you wanna take on The Iron Bull, you'll get what's coming, you fuck with me and mine I'll fuck with you," and so on and so forth.

"Bull?" Mahanon tried again.

"Herald?" Cassandra called. Mahanon held a hand out to ask her to wait.

Bull paused in his ranting and his axe stilled, blinked, and looked at Mahanon. Even then it seemed to take some time for him to recognise him but when he did that goofish half smile spread on his face. "Hey boss. Glad you're up. You look like shit though."

Mahanon grunted. "So Sera told me. You ok?"

"Yeah. Just hate demons."

Mahanon nodded.

"Herald?"

Mahanon sighed and said, "Come on, lets go see if what Templars left were worth the trouble we went to saving their arses," he said, leading the way back to where the surviving Templars were gathering, waiting to learn what their fate would be. Mahanon just hoped that they would still be willing to be allies with the Inquisition after they had decimated their ranks.


	8. Haven attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven comes under attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Long chapter! Good news is I'm past the half way point for nanowrimo well ahead of schedule! Bad news is I'm not even a quarter of the way through this planned story. Oh well, onwards and upwards!
> 
> Again I've changed a few things around partially because I'm writing this from memory having played this scene with my Mahanon over 3 months ago and partially because my Mahanon has a fair bit of history that Bioware's did not. Hope that doesn't put people off and it's still enjoyable.

Mahanon examined his face in a mirror and grimaced. A Templar skilled at healing had done what he could, his broken nose had been straightened and the gashes to his forehead and lip stitched neatly. By some miracle he hadn't broken any teeth but the Templar had suspected his right eye socket may be fractured. There were no true healers among the Templars however, and Mahanon had opted not to bring any mages with him lest it incite violence in an already unstable situation. A decision he now regretted since, at least with Sir Barras in command, there seemed to be a voice of reason once more. It wasn't until they had all returned to Haven that he had been able to get proper healing done and by then, apparently, it was too late to do much more than what was already done. Solas confirmed that his eye socket had, indeed been fractured, but it was already healing so he decided there was little to be done. He had been given a supply of elfroot to help with the pain and otherwise told, rather gruffly by Adan, to just leave it alone and let it heal. Now though, his eye was blood shot and his face a myriad of different colours from the bruising.

Here he was, the Herald of Andraste (supposedly), about to go close the breach or die trying with an army of Templars behind him to assist, and he looked like a common brawler and a trouble maker to boot. According to Bull scars added character. Bruising just looked like he couldn't defend himself well enough though.

To add to the disappointment, Mahanon had learned upon returning to Haven that he had been too late to recruit the mages. He couldn't help but wonder if he had chosen poorly, if the few low ranking Templars would be enough to weaken the breach enough for Mahanon to close it properly. He wondered too if the attempt would kill him more thoroughly this time. Well, he had taken precautions for that.

"Lavellan?"

"Solas. Come in," Mahanon called, putting the mirror down and picking up a folded letter. He turned in his seat in time to see Solas wince at his face.

"Did you need me to sooth that for you?" he asked.

Mahanon shook his head. "No, it's fine," he said. "Well, not really, but there's little that you can do for it that hasn't already been done. No, I asked you to meet me here to show you this," he said, holding up the letter. "I know that the only reason I survived the first attempt at closing the breach was because of you keeping my hand from killing me. I'm under no illusions to think that I may not be so lucky this time." The way Solas inclined his head pretty much confirmed that he had the same thoughts. "If I don't survive the attempt, then this letter has the true reason I was sent to the Conclave, something I doubt even Leliana knows. It will be left here in my house and I would like you to read it. I know we don't always see eye to eye, but I would be grateful if you could visit my clan near Wycomb, to lend them your aid, at least for a time."

"You have rejected what I have said, why should they be any different?" Solas said.

Mahanon gave a short laugh. "Oh, Keeper Deshana is different. She'd likely agree with you. My opinions are by no means my clan's."

"Then why myself? You have made it clear you do not trust me."

"That's fair. I do not trust that you are sharing your true motives for helping us. But then, I have not done the same. We both wish to stop the breach, of course, but we both have more reasons for doing so than just the good of shems, I think." Mahanon paused, but Solas did not agree nor disagree. "Regardless, I believe you are an honourable person who wants the best for our kind, even if we do not agree what that best is. I could send someone else, Bull or Josephine perhaps, even Varric would probably be willing. But they are not elvhen and after the conclave killed our Second, our First," Mahanon quickly corrected himself, "I do not know how much trust they would have. Sera would not go, it would all be too elfy for her. The only one they would trust on sight to at least hear you out would be you."

"So I'm your last resort?"

"Yes. Would you have me lie?"

Solas was silent then, "No. Very well, I will do this. For your clan rather than for yourself."

"Thank you, Solas. I mean that."

Solas inclined his head. "And if you survive?"

"If I survive then what is in this letter will be moot. I will probably keep it in a drawer here somewhere, just in case I guess, but I was hoping to start the journey back north after this. Let the shems deal with their Chantry and protecting their queen, that's not something I can help with. I will close the breach, use this mark for what it's good for, then return home when they no longer need me." Of course he also intended to wander a little, track down skilled healers, both magical or otherwise, and quiz them about any cures on the way. It occurred to him that he could ask Solas, but something held him back. After, he decided. If he survived this then he would ask, otherwise well, it didn't really matter and the letter explained everything.

"Anyway, thank you," Mahanon said, pushing his chair back and standing, leaving the letter on the desk.

Solas nodded, and the two of them left.

*

Mahanon smiled at the music and dancing going on around him and shook his hand a little, shaking away the phantom pain. That had, perhaps, been even more painful than when the breach was still active and his hand would flare with every throb, had felt as though his had were being split in two and torn all the way up his arm. He knew, somehow, that if he didn't close the breach in time, if that pain spread far enough to reach his heart, he would die. He would die and he would fail everyone, his clan, himself, Faerel, everyone all over again. He couldn't do that! And so he had pushed on.

And then just as suddenly it was over. He had dropped to his knee and his hand was cradled to his chest, but he was alive and, more than that, the breach was sealed. Cheering was the first sign that he had been successful, and then Cassandra was there, helping him to stand again and face the adulation of everyone who had come to help.

"Does it hurt still?"

Mahanon turned to see Josephine approaching him, a look of concern on her face.

"Not really," he said. "It's more the memory of pain. It still tingles with it."

Josephine nodded and leaned on the fence rail next to him. They stood next to each other, silent for a time, watching the festivities below them. "I know you voiced concerns before, that they would never trust an elf-"

"I believe I used the term 'knife ear'," Mahanon corrected with a smile, only because he knew it would fluster Josephine.

"Yes, well, you know what I mean," she stammered and Mahanon gave a small smile of amusement. "Anyway! What I was going to say was that they don't even seen an elf any more. They see their Herald, their saviour."

"So instead of being a lesser race I'm now relegated to an object of admiration. I'm not sure that's a step up."

"I'm not saying this very well," Josephine tried, but Mahanon just laughed.

"It's alright Josephine. I know what you're saying. And I also know that Leliana asked you to speak to me after one of her little birds overheard my telling Solas I planned to leave if I survived and the breach was closed. Am I close?"

"Spot on, actually." She actually sounded put out by the fact.

"I thought so. You can tell Leliana, or her spy over there can," he said, nodding his chin towards one of the revellers hanging near by. To their credit, they did not react to his words, though he knew they were listening to everything. "You can tell her that I still wish to return to my clan. It's where I belong and they need me."

"Leliana's spies have reported that your clan is much diminished from when they were seen last year, but have been unable to determine why. Were you attacked? Is that why you want to return, to protect them? If so we can send Inquisition soldiers to them to act as guards, I'm sure there would be plenty of volunteers they-"

Mahanon held up a hand to stall Josephine. "Yes, our clan has been decimated recently. And the cause of that is part of the reason I wish to return. But it is also my home, my family. I appreciate the offer of Inquisition soldiers for protection because I know it comes from your heart, but my clan would not see it that way. They would either see it as an act of aggression, or as an insult, insinuating that they were unable to defend themselves. You and I both know that neither is the case but I fear our hunters may shoot first and ask questions later."

"What if we sent only elves, and they had a letter from you?" Josephine tried.

"Provided they even allowed themselves to be found, they would assume the letter a forgery. I've never been very good with my letters. And besides, all of this is hearsay and speculation based on me not wanting to return. As much as I dread returning without our First, it is my home and where I belong. You don't need me, Josephine," he said. "You needed the mark to close the rifts and the breach. Granted there are still a few rifts around and I will close all I come across, but the breach is closed. What you needed me for is complete. I want to go home, I miss my family."

"I suppose I can understand that," Josephine conceded eventually. Who would have thought that it was admitting that he missed his clan, his family, that was what got through to Josephine. He wondered if she were feeling the same homesickness that he was only her duties as an ambassador required her to remain.

He was about to ask her about her family when a warning bell sounded followed by a cry of alarm. Frowning, Mahanon leaned forward, trying to see what was going on.

"Forces approaching!" Cullen shouted from where he had been enjoying a drink on his own by the town's walls. "To arms!"

"Shit, what now," Mahanon muttered as he ran through the fleeing crowds towards the gates. His companions joined him there as did Cullen and the Inquisition soldiers under his command. All awkwardness between them lay forgotten in the face of this new threat. "What approaches?" Mahanon demanded. All he could see was a dark mass against the snowy hills, pin pricks throughout that could only be torches.

"An army, a huge one," Cullen said.

"Yes, but who's?"

"I don't know."

The gate banged then and a voice called out, wanting to be let in. Had they locked someone outside the town walls? Mahanon hurried to open them to find a mage he didn't recognise was kneeling on the ground breathing heavily, surrounded by dead enemies. Mahanon was impressed, at first, and then he spoke with a Tevene accent and Mahanon's eyes immediately narrowed. He babbled on about being fashionably late to warn them of the army they were already aware of and all Mahanon could think of were swirling competing thoughts of blood mage and slaver.

"That's awfully convenient for you," Mahanon snapped, glaring at him. "How do we know you're not with them, here to get inside the walls and open the gates for them?"

"Have you seen that army? I usually prefer to back the obviously winning side, but in this case I've made an exception. Samson is leading an army of mages from Redcliffe, all working for the Venatori."

"You think I'm stupid enough to believe that you're not?"

"We don't have time for this!" Cullen snapped.

"He's right, boss. We'll deal with the Vint after we survive this," Bull said from just behind Mahanon.

Mahanon was almost about to protest further, to argue his case, but an arrow whizzing by his ear decided him. "Fine," he snapped. Then, to the Vint, "If you're as exhausted as you claim get to the chantry and protect the townsfolk there. Cullen, you organize the men into units to take charge of our trebuchets. Bull, Sera, Vivienne and I will act as a shock team and move quickly between locations, lending support where we're needed. We're not strong enough to go against that army head to head so we'll bury them in snow and ice. Will that work, do you think?" Mahanon asked Cullen.

The Commander nodded. "I think it's the best chance we've got," he agreed. He turned to the soldiers nearby. "You heard the Herald, get to your posts!"

The soldiers were surprisingly quick to leap to the tasks they were given and Mahanon once again admired the efficiency with which Cullen had trained them; whatever awkwardness remained between them personally even he had to admire the man's skill at leading soldiers and turning peasants with pitchforks into a small but efficient fighting force.

The four of them moved from trebuchet to trebuchet, supporting and protecting where they could, and taking over in the aiming and firing where they had not arrived in time. And then, with a creak, groan, and a whoosh, the final trebuchet fired, the already loaded boulder sailing through the air to land in the snow coated side of the mountain. As they watched, a shimmer was the first sign, easy to miss, but was closely followed by a roar that grew in strength and volume as the avalanche they caused grew in size. And then it was sweeping up men and horses, the pitiful attempts of the mages to defend themselves against the huge force of nature being swallowed up just as easily.

Silence.

Then first one cheer, then another, before the whole of Haven was sharing the adulation. Mahanon smiled but knew he couldn't relax just yet; they had taken out the bulk of the enemy's army but there were still sure to be those who survived and would continue to attack; Haven wasn't exactly the most fortified town.

A roar was the first sign that they had vastly underestimated their enemy. At first Mahanon thought it was another demon as they had fought at Therinfall Redoubt, such was the screeching nature of it. But then there was something that sounded like rhythmic gusts of air and he looked to the sky.

"Fenandhis! Dragon!" he shouted. He ran then, diving against the far side of the trebuchet as the dragon spewed what looked like liquid rubies. He wrapped his arms over his head as the trebuchet was shattered around him, pelting him with wood shards. Not liquid rubies, he realized as the dragon sailed over him to make another pass. Red lyrium. It was corrupted in the same way that the templars had been corrupted.

He ducked down again as the dragon flew over him once more but it had its eye on others for now so Mahanon took the oportunity to stand and look around. His companions seemed unharmed, thank the Creators. "Inside! To the chantry!" he ordered and those who heard him obeyed and took up the order, spreading it across the field of battle.

With the aid of their dragon the mages and venatori started to gain the upper hand. Running to the gate, Mahanon made a quick sweep around the area to make sure everyone was inside before he ran inside himself. Cullen was still alive, Mahanon was relieved to see, and the two of them pushed the gates closed, barring it. It wouldn't stop them, it was only wood, and it was certainly no defence against a dragon, but it should slow them down.

"You go to the chantry, we'll make a sweep of the town, try to gather as many people as we can and send them to you. If we're not back in ten minutes lock and bar the door," Mahanon said.

Cullen's face was grim but he gave a single nod and led the way to the chantry. Mahanon followed the sounds of cries for help first to a building that was on fire, climbing through the roof to help lift the beam that had fallen and trapped someone inside before smashing open the doorway to give them a way out. Then helping defend one of their scouts who was overwhelmed. The tavern keep, who's name Mahanon had forgotten, was next and then running up towards Solas's house, he was faced with both Minaeve and Adan trapped beneath oil pots. Pots that were meant to be used in the defense of Haven but, with a fire nearby creeping towards them, was a death trap waiting to explode.

"Bull, help me! Sera, Vivienne keep any enemies from us!" Mahanon said. He went first to Minaeve and, between the two of them, were able to lift the heavy pot enough for her to wriggle free. "To the chantry! Go!" Mahanon said. To Bull he said, "You keep holding this end, I'll get the other." Mahanon ran to the other side of the pot stack and started to lift. Too late he saw the fire licking the edges of one of the pot. He opened his mouth to shout a warning but the wind was knocked out of him as he was blown backwards, the force blowing pitch and pottery in all directions. Softly, so softly, he thought he could hear screaming. His eyes darted around from where he lay in the snow and saw what had to have been Adan once, his skin blackened, on fire, screaming, then falling to the snow, silent.

Crawling to his hands and knees, Mahanon shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. The concussive blast of the explosion had probably saved both his and Bull's lives since it had tossed them both into the snow drifts against the surrounding houses, putting out any fire that had tried to cling to their clothing. He flicked the patches of pitch that clung to his skin off, not even feeling the pain as it took skin with it. Vivienne wordlessly handed him a potion and Sera gave one to Bull. They both drank and then were on the move again.

Another scout helped facing overwhelming forces and finally Mahanon thought, there was probably no one else. Vivienne agreed, saying, "Let's get inside, we've done all we can here."

Mahanon nodded but as they approached the chantry door they saw they had taken too long; it was closed. Mahanon started looking around for some place for them to buckle down, but Bull had other ideas. He banged the haft of his axe into the door, shouting, "Open up, it's us!"

The door opened just enough to let them slip through, though Bull had to turn sideways before slamming shut again. They were safe for now, though trapped.

The councilors were arguing about what they were going to do, and even that Vint was weighing in with such useful contributions like "I didn't save you to die here" or some such. Like this was their fault, like they had asked him to come here in the first place. Growling, not trusting himself to contribute at the moment in any meaningful way, he left them to it. "Bull," he called softly and he led the qunari over to where Solas was healing the townsfolk who had been injured. "Solas," he said, to get his attention.

"A moment," the mage said, not breaking off what he was doing until it was finished. When he turned, Mahanon saw how tired he looked and shook his head.

"No, nevermind," he said. "These people need your energy more." Though he paused when he felt the cool soothing touch of magic on his burns.

"It's fine," Solas said. "Besides, I have help." He nodded his chin over to another cluster of townsfolk. Walking among them, seemingly unseen, was Cole. "A most interesting individual."

Mahanon nodded. "He helped me against the demon in Therinfall Redoubt," he said.

"Wait, that's the person you were looking for? The voice you heard?" Bull asked. "Looks like a kid."

"Not the voice, that was the Envy demon trying to get into my head," Mahanon corrected, a shudder going through him at the memory, one Bull seemed to share. "I don't know what Cole is, demon or spirit or strangely gifted human. Right now I don't think it matters; it's clear he wants to help and is helping. Though later if we get the chance I would seek your advice on him and what to do with him." A poor choice of words, Mahanon realized after he had said them, by the slight downturn of Solas's lips, but he answered anyway.

"I would be glad to advise," he said. With a wave of his hand he healed Bull's burns as well.

"Thank you," Mahanon said.

"- last trebuchet, a skilled engineer could aim it at the dragon." Cullen.

"No one is that skilled," Josephine countered.

"Wait," Mahanon said, his mind catching on the words. "What was that about a trebuchet? I thought we fired the last of them already," he said. Of course normally he was sure they could be reloaded, but there was no cover with a dragon flying over head spewing red lyrium.

"There's one other but it's off to the other side of Haven, looking down the valley," Cullen said. "Defensively, most armies would not approach from that side as any archers have a longer range and-"

"I don't care," Mahanon cut in. Cullen stopped mid sentence, almost gaping. It would have been amusing had Mahanon noticed but he was lost in thought.

"There is another way out."

Mahanon turned, finding the voice coming from Roderick, the chantry priest who had been so against the Inquistion. He was being supported by the Vint but Mahanon ignored him for now, focusing instead on the priest. "You know what I plan to do," he said.

Roderick nodded slowly. "And I respect you for it. I may not approve of the Inquisition's formation, but Thedas needs a mobile army and you are that. If you swear to me, you will not destroy the chantry..." the priest broke off with a hacking cough, one that made fresh blood bloom on front of his robes. He would not last long.

"I doubt I could even if I wanted to," Mahanon said with a half smile, but then he turned serious. "I swear to you," he said. "The Inquisition will not seek to destroy the chantry. I may not believe in it or your maker, but people here need the chantry. I see that now."

That seemed to reassure Roderick to no end and, too late perhaps, Mahanon wondered if he weren't really a reasonable sort just trying to protect what he saw as a threat to what he believed the people needed. There was no time for that now. "There is a tunnel, used as a pilgrimage for the faithful. It leads through the mountain and emerges the other side. It can be used to escape."

"None of my scouts have found any trace of such a tunnel," Lelliana said.

Roderick gave a choked laugh. "None of your scouts are of the faithful. It exists."

Mahanon had no way of knowing if it really did exist or if it were just the hallucinations of a man dying but it was all they had at the moment. "Cullen, do you think you could lead everyone out of here through that tunnel if the army were distracted?"

"I believe so, yes, but what kind of distraction were you thinking of?"

"That last trebuchet. I'm no engineer to aim precisely at a dragon, but even one as technically challenged at I should be able to fire it at the western mountains," Mahanon said, his small half smile on his face.

"But that would burry... oh," Josephine cut herself off, realizing exactly what it would mean.

"We'll come back to look for you once the townsfolk are safe," Cullen said with an earnestness that warmed Mahanon's heart.

"Don't bother," Mahanon said. "All our forces are needed in evacuating. We helped stabilize the Hinterlands, perhaps they can return the favour. I'll do this alone, no need to risk more than we have to."

Silence met Mahanon's declaration but in the end Cullen nodded. "Alright. We'll send up a flare when we're all clear so try to hold off as long as you can. But if it's not looking like you'll be able to hold off any longer, set the trebuchet off anyway. It's more important that whatever is left of that army is buried."

Mahanon nodded firmly and strode out of the chantry without looking back with a confidence he didn't entirely feel.

*

Mahanon sat with his back against the ancient mine he had fallen into just breathing. Breathing, coughing a little, and breathing. He was supposed to be dead, he had told Cullen not to bother coming back to look for him because there was no way he would have been able to outrun an avalanche that buried the whole of Haven. But while he couldn't have outrun it, it seemed he could fall into a hole and hide from it. His leg was awash with pain where he had broken it what seemed now like years ago. He didn't think it was re-broken, or at least it wasn't shattered like it had been, but he had definitely hurt it in the fall. His ribs too, though he was fairly sure that was more from being thrown into the trebuchet by that... that thing. The Elder One. Mahanon had half hoped that the so-called elder one all the red templars had been going on about was the envy demon they had already defeated. Instead it was something worse, so much worse.

Mahanon looked down at the mark on his open hand, blinking a little as it flared to life. He willed it quiet and it obeyed. Well. That was interesting. It had hurt when this Elder One, this Corypheus, had tried to take it from him, hurt even worse than when he had closed the breach. But he wondered if it hadn't been worth it if whatever Corypheus had done had given Mahanon some element of control over it.

Curious, he held it out in front of him and focused on a thought. _Open_.

To his surprise, his hand not only flared to life but a rift opened up right in front of him, lighting the whole cave in its eerie light. "Shit!" Mahanon exclaimed, scrabbling backwards away from it. He reached out once more and willed it to close the same way as he did all rifts and, miraculously, it obeyed. Mahanon was left staring wide-eyed at his hand, a hand that had just become a lot more powerful.

Though, Mahanon thought, unless it could magically summon some food, drink, warm clothing, and weapons it still wouldn't be enough to save him. He held his hand out in front of him. "Food," he said, willing it as well. Nothing happened. He sighed. "Too much to hope for."

Part of him regretted telling Cullen not to bother looking for him now that he had actually survived what was meant to kill him, but it was probably better this way anyway; no doubt if he had not told him to continue without him they would have wasted time and resources looking for a corpse. It was just a pity that the avalanche hadn't buried Corypheus and his dragon, but at least the Venatori were a much smaller threat now.

Mahanon stood, carefully testing his weight on his sore leg. It hurt, and he would rather not walk on it, but he could manage it. It was hurt a lot more when it had been shattered, he reminded himself. One thing was certain, he wouldn't be returning to his clan any time soon. He had thought that with the breach closed there would be no further need for him or his mark. But if what Corypheus had said was true, then he couldn't just walk away and pretend like nothing had happened. Shem politics were one thing, some kind of demi-god bent on destroying the world was another. And besides, while he was alive he remained a threat to Corypheus, and a threat would always bring danger. He couldn't bring that upon his clan so for their safety he had to stay away. If he found a cure for the coughing illness, he would send it with a messenger, preferably a daelish one, and hope that his clan would be curious enough to ask questions first before turning to violence.

But all of that was moot unless he managed to find supplies. He could shelter here, he supposed - it was cold but it was out of the wind - but only if there were supplies near by. Limping towards the only exit to the room (apart from the fallen in ceiling) Mahanon started down the passages. There were demons here but that was to be expected, likely mages turned into abominations. His new open-a-rift-on-command hand made short work in sending them back where they belonged. What wasn't expected was that there was an opening to the mine that he didn't have to dig through to get to. The wind outside was icy and seemed to go right through his clothes as though he weren't wearing any. Looking around he was disappointed to find no sign of Haven left apart from a few tips of roof tops poking out and lumps in the snow. There was debris littered about but, in the dark, Mahanon couldn't really tell what any of it was. Well, there went the possibility of finding supplies and sheltering in the mine. His best bet now was trying to catch up with the Inquisition. There were a lot of them and they had injured so would be moving slowly, hopefully slow enough for Mahanon to catch them.

Wrapping his arms about his body in an effort to keep as much heat in as possible, he located what he thought was the chantry's roof, took his bearings and started through the snow. He had only been in the snow once before now, and only then because his clan had been further south than they usually traveled and had been caught out by an early winter. He and the other children had thought it fantastic while the adults had sat with their heads together all worry and concerns. Mahanon, like the other children, was more interested in an ongoing snowball fight, in building an army of snow hala and laughing as the live animals came to sniff their snowy counterparts. It lost some of its appeal when the adults started limiting what food they could have as, night after night, the hunters came back empty handed, or maybe with nothing more than one or two snow hares to share between the whole clan but that just made them play all the more fiercely to hide the hunger pangs. His days had been filled with cold wet fun, and his nights he had travelled rugged up in blankets in an aravel pulled by the halas and the Keeper's magic.

Mahanon could do with an aravel, a couple hala, and the Keeper's magic right about now, he thought as he continued to sink down to his knees in the snow. It made travel slow and excruciatingly painful on his already sore leg. He just hoped that, as the rest of his body numbed, so would the pain in his leg.

Seeing a tree line, Mahanon moved towards it, figuring the tree branches would likely have caught the falling snow at least so maybe it would be a little lighter there. And he could get a stick or something to break up the snow a little so he didn't have to do so with his legs. Reaching up and pulling a branch down, he gasped as heaped snow fell down on him, getting inside his collar and coating his hair. Well, that was sure to do wonders for keeping his body heat in. Running a hand through his hair to dislodge the snow there and flicking it out of his collar before it melted too much, he started towards where he had seen the flare come from when he was facing off against Corypheus. He just hoped that such a large force would have left some trail by the time he got there even with this wind and freshly falling snow.

*

Even using his stick to break the way and test for any hidden pitfalls, it was still slow going and Mahanon was shivering violently now. He had found signs of the Inquisition's passage, but it had been cold; they had passed that area several hours ago. He must have been knocked out longer than he had thought.

Still, he pressed on. It was either that or lay down and allow himself to die. Sometimes, he knew, the thought was tempting but he also knew that the Inquisition had to be told what he had found out, what Corypheus had said. Even if it was all false, he had seen this so called 'Elder One' up close, knew what he looked like and what motivated him. That was more than anyone else currently in the Inquisition. He had to pass that message on, even if he died from exposure soon after, he had to tell them what he knew first. And that meant pressing on. Surviving and persevering.

*

"Faerel?" Mahanon called out. Or he thought he called out, his throat was so raw he wasn't sure if anyone could hear him. Faerel had though, because he turned to smile at Mahanon. He raised a hand, beckoning him and Mahanon followed as best he could. While Mahanon was forced to plough doggedly through the snow, Faerel walked lightly on it. Magic, Mahanon thought.

"Faerel, wait!" Mahanon shouted as, no matter how hard he tried, he kept falling further and further behind.

He was hot, he realized. He had been chasing after Faerel for... he didn't know how long, a long time anyway. Of course he was hot, dressed as he was. Still trying to follow Faerel, Mahanon started undoing the clasps on his coat. His fingers were fat, not working properly, so he pulled his gloves off and tossed them aside. His fingers still weren't working right but he managed to undo the clasps and he shed his coat, dumping it where it fell. It was silly to wear such a heavy thing when he was going running anyway, he knew that. He would be cold when he got up in the morning but after he started running he would warm up. Why had he worn something so heavy when he and Faerel were running?

He continued only a little further, wondering at how fast Faerel had become to always stay ahead of him, before he decided to shed his shirt too. That done he stood for a time, feeling much freer and better. Then Faerel was standing at the top of a rise, his hand waving, urging Mahanon on.

"I'm coming," he said and this time Faerel waited for him. Mahanon smiled as he finally, finally, caught up.

"I loved you," Faerel said. "Stay strong Mahanon. And love again. Look there," he pointed down the hill.

Mahanon looked. He could see an encampment of some kind, people moving around, a group coming towards them. He recognized one of them as Cullen. He smiled and turned to Faerel, wanting to introduce them, but Faerel was gone. "Faerel?" Mahanon called out, turning around, searching for him. "Faerel!" he shouted desperately as his legs tangled beneath him and he fell into the snow and darkness.


	9. Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition makes it to Skyhold.

Mahanon coughed, groaned, and curled deeper into the blankets covering him. He was cold, so cold, and shivering. He was shirtless too under the blankets, and he wondered about that - why would someone take his clothes? - wondered briefly anyway. His mind seemed to skitter over the memory of what had happened, how he got there. He could hear arguing, though his mind couldn't string the words he heard together into coherent sentences.

"So. Awake now are you?"

Mahanon grunted and pulled himself into a tight ball. He recognised Bull's voice and for some reason, maybe because he was closer, his words made sense. He was awake, he was forced to admit, though he wanted nothing more than to sleep some more. He felt something heavy drop on top of him and opened his eyes to see Bull pulling up another blanket over him.

"Thank you," Mahanon croaked. "So cold..."

Bull grunted. "Don't suppose you remember what happened to your clothes? We couldn't find them near where you fell."

"My clothes?" Mahanon repeated. He shook his head. "I thought someone here must have taken them for some reason."

Bull laughed. "You're cute, but not that cute. I can handle the cold without layers of clothing. A slight little thing like you? Not so much."

Mahanon bristled a bit at being called 'slight' and 'little' but soon settled; it took too much energy to be angry, more energy than he had.

"It happens sometimes," a new voice said. Mahanon looked past Bull to see Mother Giselle approach him. Great, he thought. Useful though she had been, Mahanon got the feeling that she always seemed to like meddling in matters that didn't concern her. Though what that matter might be right now he didn't really know, he just always felt like he should be on guard around the woman. "The messages the brain sends get muddled in the cold. It tells the body that it's hot instead of cold, and the person will shed their clothes as if they are in a sweltering desert instead of a freezing blizzard. It's usually accompanied by hallucinations. Here," she said, handing a cup of something that steamed to Mahanon. "Drink this."

He took the drink and sipped from it. The heat felt like it was burning his hands but that was a good feeling compared to a cold he couldn't shake. It was a tea, but it had other things in it as well, things Mahanon couldn't identify. He drank anyway; no matter what he thought of Mother Giselle, he knew that she did want to help people, she wouldn't give him something that would harm him.

"You were calling out, looking for someone named Faerel. Who is Faerel? I asked around the camp but there was no one here by that name. Was it someone lost in the attack?"

Mahanon coughed and the heat rose to his face. Now everyone knew about Faerel?! He wished he had frozen, he wished the ground would open up, or even better his hand open up a rift and swallow him whole, he wished-

"It doesn't matter if it was a hallucination," Bull said.

"But I only want-"

"He's dead," Mahanon answered. "He was someone from my clan who died. That's all." That's all? He felt a traitor saying 'that's all' but he had to stop her from asking further questions somehow and that seemed the best way to do so. Mahanon coughed again, a deep hacking cough.

"Very well then," Mother Giselle said after a pause. She stood. "Drink that and get some rest. Rest is the best cure and we still have a long, hard journey ahead of all of us." She walked away then, to someone else lying on another cot who had been injured in the attack.

Mahanon, leaning on one elbow, blankets still up over his shoulder, did as she suggested and drank, grateful that she had actually left him alone. The tea soothed his sore throat and warmed him from the inside out. "Did I really call out for Faerel?" Mahanon asked Bull quietly.

"Yeah," he said, and Mahanon felt embarrassed all over again. "I didn't actually see you till you were brought back to camp and you only demanded to know where he was then. The seeker looked like she wanted to try and find him for you, but I told her not to bother. Didn't know that she had overheard," he said, pointing his thumb towards where Mother Giselle had left.

"What did you say?" Mahanon asked; he dreaded to hear the answer but he had to know, he needed to know where he stood with regards to a past he would rather keep private.

"Just that he was dead and you were hallucinating. She left it at that." Mahanon gave a sigh of relief at that and relaxed; he could handle that. Cassandra wasn't one to pry but most people who would (Varric came to mind) who heard that would refrain for respect of the dead.

The arguing voices drifted towards him again and now Mahanon was coherent enough to recognise Cullen, Cassandra, and Leliana's voices as the raised ones. Josephine was trying to remain calm but Mahanon could hear the strain in her voice. With a sigh, Mahanon pushed the blankets back, intending to find a jacket and go over there, try to talk some reason into them. Instead, a large hand to the centre of his chest pushed him back down with ease. "Uh uh. You're staying right there."

Mahanon growled and pushed Bull's hand away. He got the feeling he only succeeded because Bull let him. "Someone needs to talk sense into them!" he snapped.

Bull shrugged in that infuriatingly nonchalant way. "Sure. But not you. You've done enough already, Boss."

"You call me Boss but you don't act as though I'm your boss. You should be helping me."

Bull just laughed. "I am," he said. "We'll be moving again come sun up. You want to help? Don't be a burden on everyone else just because your pride makes you want to assert yourself."

That stung. It was true, which was the only reason Mahanon didn't retaliate, but it still stung. "Fine," Mahanon said and he rolled over, turning his back to Bull and settling down, wanting to sulk just a little. They had lost their homes, countless people including Adan who Mahanon had quite liked and was a respected healer, Mahanon may have helped save their lives by burying Haven but at what cost? Instead of being buried in ice and snow or incinerated by a red lyrium spewing demon dragon, they would slowly freeze and starve to death lost in the mountains. Yes well done, Mahanon! He'd let the success of closing the breach go to his head and look where it had gotten him. Maybe he should have just stayed in the icy mine. At least then he wouldn't cause the deaths of anyone else he cared about.

It was then that Mahanon heard something that struck him as peculiar. Singing. Mother Giselle's singing more specifically. She had a surprisingly good voice. Mahanon rolled over and half sat up on his elbow to watch. It was a shem song, about hope when all seems dark, one he had never heard before but who most of the humans here seemed to. One by one they all joined in, raising their voices to the night. Mahanon found a small smile on his face. These shems were nothing if not persistent. How they could continue on and sing of all things at a time like this he could never understand. Never understand maybe, but he could admire them. Wouldn't Keeper Deshana laugh to hear that.

Perhaps though, what was more astonishing was that several of them approached where Mahanon was now sitting on his cot. They kneeled before him, as though he were some Shem leader. Desperately he wanted to leave, to hide - he didn't want this adulation! - but there was no where to hide and, really, what kind of message would that spread, that someone with as much power as he wielded thanks to the mark would run. Now he knew Keeper Deshana wouldn't laugh. She wouldn't believe him if he told her.

*

The next day was as difficult as Bull had predicted. Mahanon wasn't the only one in poor shape - though at least someone had found some clothes for him - and there were some who had to be carried or dragged behind on sleds. Solas claimed he knew of somewhere the remnants of the Inquisition could claim as their own. They had spoken the night before, after most of the people had bedded down for the night. The orb that Corypheus had used to try to pull the mark, the anchor, from Mahanon's hand had been elven, he was surprised to learn. Truly, so much of their history was lost! The mage had avoided questions of how he knew about it - something that instantly made Mahanon suspicious - but what was more concerning were the potential repercussions that may come if its origins became widely known. Solas wanted to keep its origins secret for that very reason and Mahanon agreed. It was, perhaps, the first time they had completely agreed with one another.

More than that though, he had spoken of how Corypheus attacking the Inquisition had changed it, made it more unified and Mahanon had to agree with that assessment also. What he saw as everyone packed up camp was people helping each other and rank and race seemed to be forgotten. Everyone was in it together. Strange, how such a devastating attack could do that, force people to band together, bring out the best in everyone. Oh, he had no doubt that it also brought out the worst in some people but he didn't see that here. Solas bade him to use his skills as a hunter, to scout to the north and lead the way, and that was a task he took to with a relish. It was like he were leading his clan again. Through snow and mountains rather than a forest, true, but it was the same in theory. He knew what to look for to find a good place to camp, and had even found a few goat trails which he followed and was able to bring back some fresh meat for everyone. That was greeted with perhaps even more cheers than it warranted but the people were so starved of hope, having fresh food in their bellies meant a lot to a lot of people.

Four days of travel like this and on the fifth, Solas opted to accompany him as Mahanon scouted ahead. He wasn't particularly pleased with this but Solas claimed that the way ahead was not along the most obvious path.

"This place you talk of. Is it near?" Mahanon asked as they climbed a rise.

"Yes," Solas replied. "We should reach it today."

"Good," he said. He didn't bother asking how Solas had known about it; he had already tried that, several times, and failed. But their people were still dying and the constant exposure was taking a toll on everyone, Mahanon included; he had not been able to shake the cough that had been plaguing him since he had been found in the snow. It was just the remnants of nearly freezing to death, he told himself, and a few nights in proper shelter, maybe even a mug of ale or two, and he would be fine. More than that though, he wanted proper shelter and the chance to really rest for those who had been severely injured and who hadn't succumbed to their wounds. He had seen Cole a few times, lurking about the injured, helping them where he could but always muttering, muttering. Mahanon didn't know if the others could see him, or if he were the only one, but he had approached him one time and over heard what he was saying. It was a dying man's thoughts, his longing for home, the touch of his wife's lips, the smell of her hair. And then he died.

"Was that what drew you to me, back at Therinfall Redoubt?" he had asked.

"Yes," Cole answered. "And no. Your thoughts were different, sharper, harsher. But craving love the same way. I loved you, he said. Stay strong, Mahanon. And love again. He-"

"All right, stop now," Mahanon cut in. Those words, he had dreamed them, out in the snow. They could not really have been Faerel, Faerel was dead, months dead now.

"I hurt you. I'm sorry. I could make you forget his words if you like. Make you forget the pain."

It was a tempting offer; Mahanon had seen how Cole was able to make soldiers forget what was tormenting him, make them forget the horrors they had seen. In the end though he shook his head. "No, but thank you Cole. I wasn't with him as long as I would have liked, so I would like to keep all the memories I have of him. Even the painful ones."

"I am glad you decided to allow Cole to come with us," Solas said, pulling Mahanon back from his musings.

Mahanon gave a short laugh. "I'm not sure if 'allow' is really the right word. I don't know what he is or what his agenda is, but he seems drawn to people who need help. And let's face it, we need all the help we can get right now."

"He is a spirit from the fade, taken human form in order to better help us."

Mahanon stopped walking and turned to stare at Solas. "You know that? No, never mind, of course you do." That actually got a smile from the mage. "If he's a spirit in human form, does that make him a demon?"

"I do not believe so. He has not possessed someone, there is no living being inside the body he displays. It seems as though he has created that form to serve his own purposes," Solas said, as he continued walking, now passing Mahanon.

"Huh," he said, walking forward once more to keep up. "What if he doesn't have a body at all? He can manipulate memories, I've seen him do that, and he can read thoughts and feelings and emotions. What if he's just telling us that that's how we see him, but he actually looks completely different, or has no form at all. Is that even possible?"

"It could be. Perhaps you should ask him. Though since when have you been interested in the Fade? You showed no interest in Haven."

"Oh I'm not really interested in the Fade itself. It is what it is. Trying to figure it out would be like trying to find the meaning of life; it has always been there and will always be there in some form or other and understanding it doesn't change it. I'm more interested in ensuring any allies or companions are reliable. I'm still not sure about that Vint who insists on tagging along with us," Mahanon said. Never mind that he had been with Roderick as he had died, comforted him, and generally tried to keep out of Mahanon's way.

"I believe that is another area in which we agree upon," Solas said, his irritable tone surprising Mahanon.

"Ha! We'll be best friends before you know it!"

"I wouldn't go that far."

Neither would I, Mahanon thought, though he kept that thought to himself. The only reason he was willing to trust Solas about this place they could call home was because he had no other better ideas. "So, this place, what's it look like?" Mahanon asked as he trailed behind Solas.

Solas paused on a rise and turned back. "Come and see for yourself."

Grinning, Mahanon hurried up the hill, cursing his clumsy feet as they plunged through the snow rather than walking lightly above it. Finding the stone that Solas was standing on (so that was his trick!) made it a lot easier, though he stopped, awed, as he looked out over the valley.

"Skyhold," Solas said, as though introducing an old friend.

*

Everyone had been relieved when they had caught sight of Solas and Mahanon waiting for them, and their exclamation over the sight of the keep so close sent a ripple of excitement down the line. It would take the whole day for everyone to arrive and, while Solas joined the others to lead the way there, Mahanon hung back. He would wait, wanting to make sure that everyone in the long line made it and, should darkness fall before they did, he would be there to help guide them.

By the time he arrived at the keep, things were already a bustle. People were moving this way and that, setting up temporary accommodations in the court yard, clearing away debris, carrying and moving supplies. It seemed like everyone had a job to do and Mahanon felt a little lost.

"Time to look pretty, boss."

Mahanon jumped a little as he heard Bull's voice close to his ear - a qunari that big should _not_ be able to move that quietly! - but before he could ask what he was going on about, Cassandra approached him wanting a word. He followed, secretly apprehensive but doing his best to look calm and collected and actually listen to what Cassandra was saying. He was nodding to it, agreeing without actually paying all that much attention. Yes, this was somewhere they could really make a stand. Yes, they needed a single leader - he had seen in the mountains how having too many heads seemed to be working against them. Nod, nod. Yes Mahanon should be their leader, he had already been leading them and-

"Wait, what?" he demanded, his brain catching up with.

"You," Cassandra said. She had been leading him up the stairs to the keep and now that he looked he noticed a sea of faces staring up at him. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine were there too. And they were all smiling conspiratorially. The traitors. And Bull had known! Scanning the crowd he spotted his big horned head and glared. He just got an all-too pleased grin in return.

What followed seemed to pass like a dream. He accepted a sword that was symbolic of his new position of Inquisitor and, surprisingly, no one seemed to question the fact that they all wanted an elf to lead them. He himself had no doubt that someone had to do it and, as he thought back over the past couple months, he had been taking more of a leadership role than he had ever intended. What's more, it had to be done, Corypheus had to be stopped and, while he was somewhat concerned about what this would mean for his main mission in finding a cure for Clan Lavellan, perhaps this could also work in his favour, perhaps he could use his power as Inquisitor to find more things to try. Yes, this could only be a good thing, he decided.

The four of them, Mahanon and the three advisers, entered the keep then to look around to see what they could utilize for the Inquisition. While Josephine spoke optimistically about its potential, Mahanon cut in with, "It's a dump." Cullen gave a snort and covered his mouth but Mahanon only glanced at him; he was being serious. "At the moment there's no way it will stand up to an army of foot soldiers, let alone a dragon. That hole in the roof there isn't going to be much protection, nor are the crumbling walls. Please tell me we have some stone masons among those who escaped Haven."

"Well, no," Josephine said. "But more people are arriving every day, including a group of dwarves from Orzimar. They have already volunteered to help get this place back into shape so it's at least structurally sound enough to live in."

"That's something at-" he broke off with a cough. "That's something at least," he repeated once it had passed.

"And Varric has asked me to pass on word that he has summoned someone who may be able to help us, who has faced Corypheus before and may be able to give us something about his motives."

Mahanon nodded. "We should make contact with the Empress of Orlais as well. I found papers in Therinfall Redoubt that suggested her life might be in danger. I thought nothing of it at first; we had defeated the threat with the Templars, so any assassination attempt should have ended with them. But with Corypheus being behind it all..."

"The threat still remains," Leliana finished. "I will have some of my people look into the matter in more covert ways. And Josie, you should probably also send a message to King Alistair, reassure him that we are not gathering here as any threat to him. If he gets a chance I half suspect he will want to visit anyway."

"He would want to visit here?" Mahanon said with surprise.

"Probably. We should be ready just in case," Leliana said. She stared at Mahanon for a moment, then smiled. "Don't look so terrified, Lavellan. I knew Alistair before he was king, you would like him, I think. And so long as you don't pose a threat to his people I doubt his visit will be anything but pleasant."

"A visit from the king? Gosh there is so much to do , we have to-"

"Easy, Josie," Leliana said. "One thing at a time."

"Yes, of course, you're right. We need to get the keep and walls structurally sound first, and then the out buildings and..."

"I'll go meet with this friend of Varric's," Mahanon said over Josephine's muttering.

Leliana nodded. "Just... don't take Cassandra. If he's brought who I think he has, Cassandra is going to kill him. Best not let that happen just yet."


	10. Crestwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon goes to Crestwood in search of Hawke's friend and to close a rift causing the dead to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skip over the conversations in this chapter that are in the game; we've all played it and know what happens. And if you haven't... well probably should watch a youtube video cause I don't really like quoting directly from the game where I can help it. Hopefully it's not too jarring.

The rain was never ending. Mahanon thought it rained a lot in the woods where his clan most often roamed but Crestwood put that rain to shame. His boots were causing blisters so he had abandoned them - much to Sera's amusement; she was now waiting to see if he walked in dung - but he couldn't abandon his clothes despite the fact they were soaking wet. He had already done that once already and the blizzard he had decided was balmy weather had nearly killed him and left him with a lingering cough that still wouldn't abate.

Nonetheless it was good to get away from Skyhold. Mahanon wasn't used to the large stone walls all around him and it was still far from pretty being in the early stages of being fixed up and made habitable. He would have much preferred them to make their home in a warm forest with aravels for shelter but, he supposed, that could hardly stand up to an army or a dragon.

Varric's friend had, in fact, turned out to be Hawke as Leliana had both suspected and feared. He had then informed Mahanon of yet another contact, a grey warden who could help them. So that's where they were now. Traipsing through the rain and fighting off any undead that they came across. Oh yeah, because that was another thing Crestwood had going for it. If the rain wasn't enough to make it a prime tourist destination the undead were sure to draw the crowds. Mahanon sighed as they dispatched yet another stinking corpse.

"We should find out what is causing the undead to rise here," Cassandra said. As expected, she had been furious to find out who Varric's friend had been. After defusing that storm, Mahanon decided it would be best if she came along with them to allow some space between the two to calm the waters.

"My guess is it's that rift over there," Mahanon said, pointing to the green glow across the other side of the lake. "I just don't know how to get there to close it."

"Swim?" Bull helpfully suggested.

"You first," Mahanon said. The glint that Bull got in his eye though suggested he took that as a challenge rather than something that was meant to be ignored. "No. Not happening."

"No fun," Bull pouted.

One thing the rain did do, Mahanon thought as he trotted along behind Bull and Cassandra, was it gave a rather, ahem, nice view of the large qunari in front of him. Realising he was blushing, he looked away and tried to reign his thoughts to more natural things. Like that stone, that was a lovely stone. Except now he was thinking of what else could be called stones.

Sera gave a snort. "I know what you're thinking about," she said in that annoying teasing song-song voice of hers.

"No," Mahanon said, hoping to stop it.

"You're-"

"No," he tried again, a little more firmly while his eyes pleaded with Sera to remain silent.

Surprisingly, she did, merely sticking her tongue out and making raspberry noises at him. Thankfully more undead decided to show themselves right then which served to make everyone forget about what Sera apparently knew and focus on dispatching them.

*

That evening they set up crude shelters against a rock face that blocked most of the wind and rain, though it was still cold, damp, and miserable. A merry fire helped and Mahanon had actually managed to fall asleep to begin with but was later woken by nightmares. Realistic nightmares that, for a few moments after waking, he had believed them real. Opening his eyes and seeing the fire, he scuttled away from it before he realized that there was no body in there, it was just the normal camp fire. Nonetheless, with his heart still racing, blood pounding in his ears, he had no real desire to go back to sleep just yet. Instead, he moved over to the log near the fire where Bull was sitting watch. He had his back to the fire so that the light didn't blind him, but Mahanon sat facing it.

Feeling a tap on his arm, he looked up to see Bull offering him a flask without looking at him. Mahanon took it and drank. "Strong," he commented, his voice strained as he handed it back.

Bull gave a short laugh. "Only the best. Keep it, you look like you need it."

Mahanon took it back and sat cradling it. He pulled the blanket he had dragged with him closer around him; there was a breeze blowing and with the constantly falling rain and damp clothes it made the air quite cold. He coughed and took another swig. That soothed it, in a sense. "Just a nightmare," he said dismissively. "We lost a lot of good people at Haven." He drank again. "Your chargers, they all made it through all right?"

"Yeah. My boys are tough," Bull said, his voice proud.

"Adan was tough, but that didn't allow him to survive."

"Mmm, can't say I knew him personally. He was unlucky. You need luck as well as guts to survive. The best swordsman can still be taken out by an arrow from behind."

"He wasn't unlucky. I was too slow," Mahanon said, and he drank again, deeply.

"Hey, slow down with that," Bull said. He didn't know what was in the drink but Mahanon did feel a little light headed now. Maybe he should slow down a bit. "You can't take on the deaths of every one who falls personally. Your shoulders aren't wide enough to carry all that."

"And yours are?" Mahanon snapped.

"Nope. That's why I don't. I don't know anyone who can take all that and not break. And you can't afford to break."

Mahanon sighed. "I didn't ask for a lecture."

"Then stop acting like you need one."

Mahanon glared at Bull and, deliberately, took several large gulps of the drink. Bull just smirked. "You'll regret that," he warned.

"I doubt it," Mahanon said - and he did not slur his words! - as he tossed the now empty flask back, proud that it hit the qunari on the chest. The world spun as he stood, but he managed to make it back to his bed roll in one piece and curl into his blankets to have another go at sleep.

*

Mahanon groaned as he stumbled away from yet another undead that he had sunk his daggers into just moments before, feeling decidedly green in a way that had nothing to do with the smell of the undead.

"I warned -"

"Don't," Mahanon cut Bull off before wandering away a little further to attempt to retch again. He hadn't eaten any breakfast and had already emptied his stomach of last night's dinner but try telling his churning gut that. Sera simply chortled while Cassandra looked concerned and Bull smug. This was not a good day. And the mayor of Crestwood Village had pushed Mahanon's limited patience to the absolute edge already. There was a way to drain the lake in order to get to the rift and close it, but it was through a keep held by bandits. All terribly convenient, Mahanon thought.

Cassandra had pointed out that, once cleared out, they could claim the keep, Caer Bronach as it was called, for the Inquisition. That would be a good reason to take it alone, Mahanon knew; with forces out this way they could respond to threats in the area that much faster.

The tree Mahanon was leaning against was at the edge of a rather large drop into a valley and movement below caught his eye. Frowning, he carefully moved along the edge of the cliff, his bare feet finding where it was safe to walk and where it wasn't in a way he was never able to do wearing shoes. "Lavellan, what are you doing?" Cassandra called out.

"I think I see something down there," he replied. Yes, there it was! "A dragon!" he shouted. Crashing behind him alerted him to Bull's approach - so now he could hear him! - and he gave a whistle spotting her down there.

"Isn't she a beauty!" he declared. "A pity she's all the way down there!"

"Maybe we can reach her after the dam is lowered," Sera said as she and Cassandra approached at a more sedate pace.

"Perhaps, though we should conclude our business here first," Mahanon said.

They left the dragon sleeping where she was for now, though seeing how excited the prospect of hunting her made both Bull and Sera, Mahanon decided that returning would definitely be a worthwhile endeavour; his friends deserved some fun after all they had gone through. Though he most definitely would not be drinking the night before!

*

Mahanon dodged around a bandit, dispatching him from behind while he was stunned from a shield bash by Cassandra. On the move again he moved from one enemy to the next to the next, always moving, always dodging and weaving, never staying still. Finally some of his old speed was returning and his leg only ached now after they stopped to rest. Bull and Cassandra, as the most obvious enemies on the battlefield (or as much as the courtyard of a keep could be called a battlefield) drew most of the attention while Mahanon had fun herding the enemies into tight knots where Sera pelted them with arrows laughing with delight as she did so.

They fought their way up though the keep and Mahanon couldn't stop grinning. They were unstoppable! Who had ever heard of taking a keep dug in with bandits with only four people? But it seemed the bandits had never considered it a possibility either, or they believed that their comrades would deal with it all soon enough for they offered no real resistance.

Higher and higher they climbed until they reached the battlements. It was there that they met their first real challenge of the attack. While still fighting the lackeys there, a huge roar announced the arrival of their leader.

"He's mine!" Bull shouted, charging over horns first like his namesake. Mahanon laughed and followed as backup, though he let Bull take most of the attention himself. He ghosted around behind the big brute and while Bull went head to head with him, both nearly a match for size, Mahanon's daggers flicked out here and there, causing stinging irritants that served to distract the brute, giving Bull his openings. The brute was slowing down, bleeding from a dozen small wounds, by the time Cassandra and Sera had finished mopping up and could join them and between the four of them they made short work of the bandit leader. Nonetheless they were all breathing heavily by the time he fell and all had small wounds sustained in the attack. Most were tiny, though Bull had a rather deep gash in his left pectoral.

"Here," Mahanon said, taking a cloth from his pocket and holding it to the wound to staunch the blood flow. Bull looked down surprised as he did so.

"Huh. The bastard got me." He seemed surprised by the fact and Mahanon realized he probably hadn't even felt the wound until attention was drawn to it.

"Why do you never travel with a mage? One would be useful now," Cassandra said.

"I don't really like magic," Mahanon replied. Lying - he didn't really have a problem with magic at all - but not wanting to admit that he didn't like travelling with any of the mages they had. Solas was hiding something and Mahanon had a feeling it was something significant. Plus, Mahanon's only passing interest in elven history annoyed the fade walker. To Vivienne everything was a show, everything for appearances. Mahanon generally got frustrated in trying to keep up appearances and Vivienne's nagging that he continue to do so grated on his nerves. And then there was Dorian, the Tevinter. Yeah, like he was ever going to invite someone like that to travel with them and trust him to watch his back. There were other mages in the Inquisition now, those who had not joined the Venatori, but Mahanon knew even less about them. All in all, he would rather just travel without a mage. "We don't need magic for the most part. Sera's arrows do just as good a job at covering us from a distance and if we are injured bad enough to need healing, then we'll go to the nearest town."

"And if we're all too injured to get to a town?" Cassandra asked.

"Then I doubt any mage would be in better shape," Mahanon pointed out. Cassandra merely grunted at that and moved away to check the bandits' bodies for anything useful.

Mahanon moved the cloth away but simply grunted a little when he saw more blood well and returned it.

Bull chuckled a little and took over holding it to his chest. "It's fine Boss really. Just another scar to add to my collection. Check this one out," he motioned to a half healed wound on his forearm. "I've been working on this beauty. Doesn't it look like a dragon?" Mahanon looked again. He supposed it did...

"You've been working on it?" he asked, not entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Yeah. A little pick here, a little scratch there. It's just about done I think!"

Mahanon couldn't help but smile even if it was disgusting; he sounded like an excited child. "Perhaps it's a good thing I didn't invite Vivienne along. I've heard her telling you to stop picking at it."

"What about this one?" Bull said, lifting the cloth and inspecting it closely. "I think I could turn it into a wyvern."

"I think you would be better keeping it as a snake. You would have to make it a lot worse to turn into a wyvern."

"Oh I guess."

"You are not turning that cut into any kind of animal!" Both Mahanon and Bull turned guiltily at the disgusted tone Cassandra was taking with them. "Set up camp and no more disgusting talk of picking scabs!"

Guiltily both of them left to do as they were bade, Mahanon not daring to pull rank and Bull not daring to touch his new wound.

*

They found the dam controls inside the keep as the mayor had said and by raising the Inquisition flag and sending word back to Skyhold, Inquisition soldiers were starting to arrive. The four of them remained in the keep until a force large enough to hold it easily arrived but they experienced no trouble; word had already spread how the Inquisitor and three of his friends had taken the keep all on their own without siege equipment or anything. Of course, having Bull around to break through any barred doors had been the same as having their own much more portable and deadly siege weapon, but Mahanon let people believe what they would about their strength; it would ensure that people would think twice about attacking them.

When he deemed the force holding Caer Bronach was sufficient without relying on rumour and exaggerated stories, Mahanon, Bull, Sera and Cassandra ventured down into the waterlogged land of Old Crestwood. The air here was humid and oppressive; it felt like some of the ancient elven grave yards Mahanon had visited on occasion, heavy with spirits. Of course he had no way of knowing whether it actually was heavy with spirits, having left behind anyone who could have told him, but in truth Mahanon didn't mind not knowing - it was easier that way.

Through their explorations they learned of the mayor's dirty secret, how he had chosen to drown all the refugees who came seeking shelter in Crestwood in order to save the residents who already lived there. Finding the rift turned out to be more difficult than Mahanon had thought since it was actually deep underground instead of just under the water as he had suspected. It was also huge and Mahanon's hand tingled just looking at it.

"Everyone ready?" Mahanon asked as the four of them stood staring at it.

Cassandra hefted her shield, holding it protectively in front of her, Sera knocked an arrow and Bull brought his axe in front of him, all letting Mahanon know wordlessly that they were ready and with him. Mahanon for his part, took both his daggers in hand and together they charged at the rift as it roared to life. Four wraiths and a rage demon. Mahanon and Sera took on the wraiths, keeping their attention while Bull and Cassandra handled the rage demon. As soon as they were all dispatched, Mahanon threw his hand out towards the rift, feeling the tearing sensation in his hand as he attempted to close it. Instead an explosion blew them all backwards and more demons spilled out. "Shit," he muttered before once more charging in to the fight.

Only three wraiths this time - quickly dispatched - but two despair demons. Mahanon hated those! He barely got two light strikes in before they zipped across the room and he was left once more charging after them. It was worse for Cassandra and Bull though who were lucky if they got one hit in. The best they could do was occupy them while Sera pelted them full of arrows.

All of them were wearying from the fight - these demons were stronger than the usual ones they had faced to date - but once more they managed to send them all back to the fade and Mahanon tried again to close the rift thinking surely this time it would work; two waves was all they had ever had to face in the past before. His hand was burning from the effort and he thought he might have finally managed it this time but an even larger explosion blew them all away once more. Mahanon grunted as he came to his feet and, holding his daggers in his other hand, shook out the hand with the mark, trying to rid the sharp pain and lingering sensation he was still experiencing.

"You ok boss?" he heard Bull call from across the wall.

"Fine. Smarts is all," he said, playing it down. It didn't really matter how tired he was or how much his hand hurt. It had hurt far worse closing the breach and just like that, this was something he had to do.

They didn't have time to say any more before the demons reappeared. Two wraiths that were dissipated nearly as soon as they appeared, two terror demons and a pride demon. Mahanon almost despaired himself seeing those. Cassandra attempted to keep the pride demon's attention, matching raw power with shield and heavy armour, while Bull took one terror demon and Mahanon the other, Sera providing ranged attacks where she saw she was most needed. The terror demon kept knocking Mahanon to the ground such that he had trouble even wounding it. He would get three, maybe for strikes in, then be knocked down. Part of him realised he was going to be stiff and sore tomorrow but it was only a brief passing thought, quickly forgotten and replaced by staying alive. Bull dispatched his demon and came over to assist Mahanon, allowing the elf to maneuver to where he worked best, from behind and the flanks. Together they finished it off and turned to help Cassandra end the pride demon.

"Fucking close already!" Mahanon swore as he threw his hand towards the rift once more. He gritted his teeth as the pain spread up his arm but finally he felt the rift responding. As he felt the thread between his hand and the rift tighten, he clenched his other hand and yanked backwards with all his strength almost forcing the rift closed physically. It left him panting on one knee on the ground, his throbbing hand cradled to his chest. A coughing fit took him brought about by sheer exhaustion.

"Here." Mahanon looked up to see Sera handing him a flask and he took it, taking a swig. The water was warm and tasted of the leather container it was kept in, but it was wet and it soothed his throat.

"Thank you," he said, handing it back.

"Are you alright?" Cassandra asked him.

Mahanon folded his feet beneath him to sit on the ground rather than kneel. "I'm fine. It always hurts a bit closing rifts but that one was especially nasty." He studied his hand but saw nothing that looked unusual or gave any physical outward sign of what he felt. He sighed and stood. "I'm fine. It's done. Let's go confront the mayor."

*

And the mayor was missing. Of course. Because him sticking around to be called out on what he had done would be far too convenient for the Inquisition. Mahanon sighed and kicked a rock at the house.

"Forget about him. Leliana will be able to track him down, I'm sure," Cassandra said.

Mahanon didn't doubt it, but it was kind of beside the point. It would be nice for something to go smoothly for a change. "At least it stopped raining," he said. "Will make it easier to go traipsing across the countryside to find Hawke and his warden friend."

"See? Always a plus side," Sera said, and Mahanon couldn't help but smile. Josephine had cautioned him on how wise it might be to rely on Sera as a companion when he left Skyhold but it was for reasons like this that he did: she made him smile. That and her somewhat unique way of viewing the world was a refreshing change. It was nice, and nice was in short supply so Mahanon held on to it where he could get it.


	11. Saheron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is called Saheron because that's what it was SUPPOSED to be about. And instead this happened. Cause I suck at coming up with titles and I couldn't think of something else to call it, the name stayed. It is mentioned. Briefly.

Mahanon had wanted Stroud to come with them back to Skyhold - it was safe there from the other grey wardens hunting him - but he had refused the offer, politely, wanting to go directly to the Western Approach and to meet Mahanon there. Mahanon couldn't just go racing off though, as much as he may wish to. What Warden Stroud had to tell him was... well, alarming to say the least. Blood magic never ended well and that all of the grey wardens had turned to it because of a bluff Calling by Corypheus was a lot to take in. Mahanon had to return to Skyhold, to report in. What they hoped to achieve, to end all blights, Mahanon could understand - who wouldn't want the threat of any future blight to be wiped from their land? - and truthfully he would have even ignored the fact that they were using blood magic to do so; if it attained that goal then surely the price was worth it. However, what he couldn't ignore was the certainty that this was all a ploy of Corypheus to get the wardens to do his bidding, to sow further dissension in their ranks and further destabilise Thedas. That, and Cassandra had wanted him to return to rest properly in order to get over the cough he had contracted in the blizzard, the blizzard he had decided it would be a good idea to walk half naked through.

Returning to Skyhold they had been met with cheers and welcome but for Mahanon he couldn't believe the changes the keep had undergone while they were away. Most areas were no longer barred and were considered structurally sound once more. Rooves had been repaired and walls shored up. Of course some areas were still damaged, but the great hall was starting to look more like a hall and less like a decaying dump. Josephine assured him as she showed him around that he could order whatever décor he wished and it would be installed. She also said they had organized a surprise for him and led him to a doorway at the end of the hall. She gestured towards it, indicating that Mahanon should lead the way through.

Opening it, he saw nothing of particular interest, only a walkway going upwards inside a tower. He turned and rose an eyebrow to Josephine.

She laughed. "Keep going!" she insisted.

Shrugging, Mahanon did as he was requested and followed the wooden walkway. It was obviously only meant as a temporary measure, though was sturdy enough. The wood gave way to stone stairs and another doorway. He glanced back at Josephine but not seeing her give any indication that this wasn't where he was supposed to be going, opened the door and climbed these stairs as well. The room that greeted him stopped Mahanon in his tracks. Large and opulent, it took full advantage of the mountain views that surrounded Skyhold. Mahanon hadn't even realized Skyhold had a room like this and he had most definitely underestimated Josephine's abilities to take a run down keep and turn it into this.

"It's gorgeous Josephine. I'm sure King Alistair will feel right at home here," Mahanon said, turning with a smile to his adviser.

"King Alistair?" Josephine seemed confused at first, but then her face cleared and she laughed. "No silly, this is your room."

"Mine?" Mahanon repeated and he turned to look at the room again.

"A room fit for the Inquisitor. Easily the most powerful man in Thedas at the moment. I'm sorry it's not very personal, I didn't know what kind of bedding you would like, and the hangings haven't even arrived yet. I had some dalish banners being sent you see and-"

"Josephine," Mahanon cut in to stop his adviser from worrying herself into a tizzy. "Stop. It's fine. More than fine. It's more than I've ever seen before." He smiled. "You forget, I'm used to sleeping in an aravel if under shelter at all. I could easily fit five or six aravels in here."

"Is it too much? We could try to change it if you don't like it."

Mahanon rested both his hands on Josephine's shoulders to stop her and get her attention. "It's fine truly," he said. He gave her shoulders a squeeze then let go. "Thank you. I was expecting more of the castle to be shored up and made safe. I wasn't expecting this. Truly you've outdone yourself."

"Well then, if you like it I'll leave you to get acquainted with your new quarters," she said before taking her leave.

Mahanon waited until she was gone, then did the most childish thing he could think of: took a running leap at the bed, landing in its soft covers. Then promptly rolling off the other side where he lay laughing to himself. He had never envied the shems their stone and wood houses, their beds that were disconnected from the ground before. They had always seemed oppressive compared to the camps he had always lived in. But it was as though Josephine had taken all that into consideration in designing this room. The roof was high, easily two stories since he could see a balcony above his head so it didn't feel like it was too close and confining. There were huge windows and glass doors on two sides of the room flooding it with light and fresh air (and a little snow) straight from the mountains. The whole room felt light and airy and not oppressive at all. The same couldn't be said for the rest of Skyhold in which Mahanon generally felt confined, but here at least Josephine, and probably the other advisers as well, had built him a sanctuary.

Pulling himself up fro the floor he went over the the fireplace and got a fire going in it. He left the glass door at the far side of the room open so that fresh air continued to flow in, but closed the one nearest the fire. Of course, a room this large, it would take both doors closed and the fire going all day to keep it warm at night, but Mahanon doubted he would be overly cold with all those bed covers. That done, he continued to poke around the room. There was a desk in the corner that had paperwork that seemed to need his sign. He ignored them; there would be time for that later and he had no doubt he would need Josephine's help in dealing with it all anyway. In another corner was a cupboard with various styles and cut of clothes. Mahanon dug through it and chose something other than his dirty smelly travelling clothes and changed into it. He probably shouldn't have rolled all over the bed in those dirty clothes, he thought, but it was too late now. He kicked the dirty clothes into a corner to deal with later. Through one door he found a ladder that led up to the mezzanine above. It mostly seemed to be storage for now, though Mahanon was sure he could think of some kind of use for it. Opening the other door, Mahanon broke into a huge grin. "Oh yes," he murmured to himself. It was only a small room, but there was a small wood stove in one corner and at the other end a claw foot bath. With taps! Mahanon had never actually used a bath with taps before, though he understood such things were common in Orzamar. Curiously, he turned one of the taps on and laughed with childish delight as water gushed out of the faucet. Putting his hand under it, Mahanon gasped and pulled his hand back. It was hot! Once, when he was a child and had travelled into a shem town, he had stayed in a tavern that had a bath, but it needed servants to haul water to tip into it. By the time the water had filled the bath, it was luke warm at best. And living with the clan, mostly they bathed in rivers or if there were none about or it was winter, using barrels of water. Once when they were children, Faerel had shown Mahanon a trick he had learned on his own and heated the water of a small inlet off a lake. The two of them had splashed around in the warm water until Faerel grew tired from the effort of keeping it warm for them.

But this was something different. Mahanon stood and, only remembering to turn off the tap at the last minute, raced out of his room, down the stairs and around the corner to burst into Josephine's study. "Hot water!" he exclaimed, ignoring the stunned look from both his ambassador and the nobleman she was currently conversing with.

"Marquis, this is our Inquisitor, Mahanon Lavellan. Mahanon, this is-"

"Yes, yes, hello, nice to meet you," Mahanon cut in, too excited to care that he was being rude and completely ignoring the offended spluttering the pompous noble was now displaying. "Hot water, how did you get it up there? Where is it coming from? Don't tell me you have the few mages we have put to work melting snow and heating water."

"Of course not!" Josephine answered, as though offended that he would even think she would do such a thing. "We discovered that Skyhold was built on top of an ancient hot spring. It was a simple matter to arrange for plumbing to be built to your quarters."

"Josephine, you are a wonder. Thank you. I mean it. You think of everything," he said and turned to leave.

"Lavellan!"

Mahanon turned surprised at that; usually Josephine called him either Herald, or Inquisitor, or maybe Mahanon. That she called him Lavellan said she was less pleased with him than he was with her. She looked meaningfully at the forgotten noble.

"Oh right," Mahanon muttered, then louder, "My lord, I would be honoured if you would join us for dinner this evening."

"I would be honoured to join," the noble responded, but by the pinching of his lips Mahanon suspected that he wasn't exactly pleased with what he had just witnessed. As he left, Mahanon heard the noble talking to Josephine, admiring how she was attempting to turn 'such a savage' into a civilized person. Mahanon couldn't bring himself to care; he was going to have a bath. A hot one!

*

It was much later that evening that Mahanon finally emerged from his new quarters feeling a lot more refreshed. Servants had come while he had been in the bath and took away his dirty travelling clothes. That had been somewhat uncomfortable; Mahanon would have rather just been told where to take them and take them himself, or even to clean them himself, but apparently it was a prized honour to serve the Inquisitor so he let it be for now. Maybe later he could find out if it really was an honour or if they were just saying that to please him.

More papers had been delivered as well and Mahanon was currently sitting at his desk reading through them. Most of them were uninteresting and he would work with Josephine tomorrow to go through and reply with the proper response, but there was one handwriting that immediately caught his eye because it was familiar. It was a letter from Keeper Deshana. His keeper's handwriting was always so neat and precise, especially compared with Mahanon's scrawl. The dalish didn't write down their stories and histories, of course, but Keeper Deshana had spent some time with humans as a child and learned to read and write from them. As First she had offered to teach this skill to anyone who wished to learn it, but when she became Keeper she insisted that all children learn to read and write and be proficient in both before they get their valaslin. Mahanon had always been a troublesome student for her, more interested in the practical skills of the hunters he was destined to become, but now he was grateful for her perseverance; she never gave up on teaching him no matter how often he ran off and hid from his lessons or disrupted the other children.

Mahanon read the letter quickly. It was brief, informing him that she was glad to hear he survived, that she would appreciate him letting her know if he was with the humans of his own free will, to ask how he was going in his search for a cure and to inform him that Adan's potions had arrived safely and, while they had alleviated some of the symptoms, they had not cured anyone. And to say that four more healthy adults had succumbed to the illness and more showed the early signs of it.

Mahanon rested his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands, fingers laced through his hair and eyes closed. She hadn't mentioned the names of those who had died, but it didn't really matter. They were still dying. Mahanon had dared to hope that the illness had run its course, or that Adan's potions had helped, but such hope had turned out to be in vain. His elation at having hot water easily accessible in his room had evaporated with this news. He was due at dinner soon but pretending that everything was fine was the last thing he wanted to do right then. Instead, he stood and left his opulent rooms, managing to avoid attention as he passed through the great hall - one instance where being seen as nothing more than another 'knife ear' actually worked in his favour - and went outside. It was twilight and the sinking sun set the mountains to a beautiful haunting reddish purple. Mahanon barely noticed. He had seen on his way in that a tavern had opened so it was there that he wandered.

Inside it was already full with people, laughing, joking, drinking, even singing. The minstrel from Haven had survived and followed them there to ply her trade here. No one even gave Mahanon a second glance as he kicked the door shut behind him and made his way over to the bar.

"What're you having?" the dwarf behind the counter asked.

"Something strong. A meal. Keeping my presence here quiet," Mahanon said.

The dwarf gave a single nod and handed over a drink first. It was only half gone before Mahanon heard someone asking about him - and he wasn't drinking slowly. He also heard the barkeep say he had no idea who he was, just some other elf hanger on likely. Mahanon smiled into his cup, taking another drink. The questioning one pestered him further, saying things like barmen knew everything and everyone and why hadn't he asked, to which the barman answered that it was none of his business and none of the new comer's either. Mahanon decided he liked this dwarf.

"What's your name?" he asked with a nod of thanks to the bowl of stew and plate of fresh steaming bread put before him. Much better than travel rations any day.

"Cabot."

"Mahanon."

They nodded to each other and left it at that.

Mahanon was half way through his dinner when he heard a familiar shout from across the room. "Hey, boss! Come join us!"

Mahanon considered declining, but now that Bull had announced his presence so loudly, he knew he wouldn't be left alone now so, with a sigh, he stood. Drink in one hand, bowl in the other and remaining bread slice hanging from his mouth, he wandered over. Just in time too as, when he reached the group Bull was sitting with, out of the corner of his eye he saw the door open and who should walk in but Josephine looking harassed. Biting off the bread and letting the remainder drop into his bowl he hissed to Bull, "Hide me!" and tried to put the qunari between himself and the doorway.

For once, Bull's ben hassrath training came in handy for more than just startling Mahanon. "Hey Josephine! Come join us!" Bull shouted over the din, waving to her while simultaneously shielding Mahanon from her sight with his body. Krem and someone else he didn't know, a dwarf, also rose to stand beside Bull completely hiding Mahanon.

"Ah, no, thank you. I'm looking for the Inquisitor, have you seen him?"

"Nope, no Inquisitor here. Just my Chargers and a friend."

"Oh where could he be," Mahanon heard Josephine say as she turned and hurried out of the tavern. He felt a little guilty at making her stress so, but it was sure to be less stress than if he put in a poor performance at dinner tonight. Besides, he had already eaten.

"Smooth, Chief. Didn't have to lie to her," Krem said as he and the dwarf returned to their seats. The Chargers shifted to make room for Mahanon to join them so he sat, flashing a grateful grin to them.

"I didn't lie. There's no Inquisitor here, just us and a friend who doesn't want to be 'The Inquisitor' for a change. Am I right?"

"Spot on actually," Mahanon said, taking a swig of his drink.

"Hey, Cabot! Another round! And none of that weak piss you try to pass off as booze!" Bull called and Mahanon smiled. He wouldn't mind getting drunk tonight, he thought. He would take it a little slower than last time though; he didn't have to be fighting undead first thing in the morning so it had to be a plus, but nor did he really want to be sick again. Looking around, he could see quite a few members of his so-called inner circle gathered here instead of going to the great hall for dinner. Sera was sitting on a table instead of a chair, surreptitiously throwing various items of food at people passing by. Cole was moving around seemingly unseen and muttering to himself. Even Dorian, the Tevinter mage, was there, though he was sitting alone and seemed lost in thought. None of them had given his presence up to Josephine and that made Mahanon feel somewhat lighter.

The evening passed with good food, drink and company as Mahanon was introduced to each of the Chargers in turn and got to learn a little more about them. It was fun and, for a time at least, Mahanon was able to forget about his worries about his clan, even forget that he was the Inquisitor, the one responsible for setting the world back to rights. He could just be Mahanon. He could even almost fool himself into pretending that he was one of Bull's chargers, nothing more nothing less. It made for a nice change.

It was late when the Chargers started splitting up and going their own way, some to bed, some to gather in smaller groups of two or three to talk quietly, and most of the tavern inhabitants had done the same. Mahanon was more than a little pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol he had drank, but not so drunk that it was likely he would be sick in the morning, thank the Creators.

"Hey, Bull," Mahanon said.

"Hmph?"

"How'd you get that scar?" Mahanon asked, very proud of how little his voice slurred as he pointed to a jagged one that curved around his bicep.

"Oh that? Got it in Saheron. From a knife."

"Must have been a shit knife, all mine cut clean."

"Thought you said yours were daggers," Bull said teasingly. Mahanon just pouted which made Bull chuckle. "It was literally a knife, a serrated dinner knife. The fighting there... hurumph. Do me a favour and promise me you won't let the Inquisition get suckered in to urban combat."

"Promise we wont get suckered in to urban comcats. Com... bats. Hey imagine if we could use bats to communicate with each other? Would be so much better than birds."

"How do you figure?" Bull asked, his single eye seeming to dance with amusement. At least to Mahanon.

"Cause they're black, and they only fly at night. They'd be like stealthy invisible messenger pigeons. Except not pigeons. Bats."

"And how would you train them?"

Mahanon frowned, thinking about it. "Leliana could. She trains crows. Ravens. Black birds. Hey, maybe she's on to my idea and training stealthy birds!"

Bull laughed. "I'll be sure to tell her that," he said.

"I bet Josephine could get some bats for the Inquisition," Mahanon said, thinking. "She got hot water for my room - hot water! - I'm sure bats would be no problem. Then Leliana and me could have black messenger carrier thing races."

"Why were you hiding from Josephine anyway?"

"She wanted me to dress all fancy and act all fancy and wear shoes and talk with noblemen I don't like. I don't like wearing shoes," Mahanon lay his head on his arm and drew pictures in the condensation ring on the table.

"You're the Inquisitor now, you have the big shiny sword and everything, you can't avoid it forever."

"I knoooooww," Mahanon whined. "But I made a noble angry today and my clan is dying and I just don't wanna."

Bull's eyebrows drew together and he leaned closer to Mahanon. "Your clan is dying?"

"Mhm," Mahanon said with a sniff.

"How? Why isn't anyone helping them?"

"Cause I don't wan' em to know. Word'll get out where they're camping and that they're weakened and then the shems'll attack. Or slavers. Slavers are worse."

"Slavers are definitely worse, but why are they dying?"

"I'll show you," Mahanon decided. He pushed himself to his feet and swayed as the room spun around him. He giggled. "You're bin hassath, you'll find out anyways." He started to walk towards the door - he thought - but his legs didn't quite co-operate, and then the floor was coming to say hello, and then it wasn't.

"Up you go," Bull said as he picked Mahanon up and tossed him over his shoulder.

"Whahahaha!" Mahanon giggled as he the world was upside down and swinging as Bull moved, a hand across his thighs holding him in place, his hips against his shoulder. "Uugh, put me down, I'm gonna be sick," he said, quickly changing his tune as he felt his stomach roll.

"Don't you dare be sick on me!" Bull growled.

Mahanon walked his hands up Bull's back and pushed so he was more horizontal than vertical. "Hey, you ever tried walking backward through Skyhold before? Looks different. And your high! Seriously how do you not get dizzy from being so high up all the time? Actually that's a dumb question, I don't get dizzy from being high up so why would you? There was this kid in our clan, he would get so terrified of being up high that he would be sick and once he even passed out! He's dead now though I guess. All the kids are. They - oof!" Mahanon broke off when he was dropped on his bed, that big soft plush thing.

"Get some sleep, boss," Bull said as he started to leave.

"Wait!" Mahanon called out. Bull paused. "The letter from Keeper. It's on my desk. The top one. Just..." his eyes drifted closed, "don't tell anyone, ok?" He was asleep before Bull could even respond, snoring softly.

*

Bull had debated not reading the letter - Mahanon had clearly been very drunk when he invited him to and usually he wouldn't take advantage of someone in such a state - but in the end he decided he would read it first, then decide whether he would make mention of it in the morning. He found the letter Mahanon had been talking about, it was on top and more worn than the rest as though the elf couldn't quite decide what he should do with it.

Between it and what Mahanon had said just before - that all the Lavellan children were dead - he put together that there was some kind of illness or disease threatening his clan. Not a military threat that he could have easily dispatched the Chargers to deal with as he had hoped. Bull looked over at the sleeping form of the Inquisitor and wondered, his thoughts whirling with this new information and how it fit in with his image of the Inquisitor.

In the end though, he returned the letter to where he found it and sought out his own bed. He would do nothing, say nothing, for now, unless Mahanon remembered and approached him about it. For now, he would watch and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. Bull POV. Not sure if that will continue but felt like he had to have a say at the end.


	12. Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Mahanon play chess and talk

Mahanon strode through the gardens at Skyhold, picking the herbs he had been growing there. Truthfully he wasn't particularly skilled at herbology, but he figured the least he could do was learn how to make health potions and a few other useful combat oriented potions. It was pleasant here now and was easily Mahanon's favourite place. Second only to his bath filled with hot water perhaps. A number of other Inquisition members gathered here in their down time as well, and chairs and tables had been set up, along with a chess table.

Wrapping his clippings in cloth to protect them, Mahanon wandered over to it. Cullen was playing the Vint there and seemed to be losing. Mahanon stood off to the side watching, facing the Vint so he could always watch him - he wouldn't allow himself to be surprised by another of his kind again! The Vint, for his part, seemed to become a little wary seeing Mahanon there, but loath to cede victory to Cullen, he didn't leave as he normally did when Mahanon approached.

"I believe I have won," the Vint said.

Cullen just wore a small smile that, to Mahanon, said that he knew otherwise. He moved a piece and said, "Check mate."

The look on the Vint's face as he realized he had been outmanoeuvred was priceless. He spluttered for a little, then stood. "Well, I can tell when I'm no longer welcome," he said before strutting off like the peacock he was.

Cullen simply chuckled to himself and gestured to the now empty seat. "Why don't you join me now you've scared off my opponent?"

"I highly doubt I scare anyone," Mahanon said, but he sat anyway and watched as Cullen reset the pieces.

"You scare plenty of people. But Dorian? It's obvious to everyone that you can't stand to be around him and it reflects on him."

"Then why does he stay? He would be better off going back to where he came from if it's all so horrible for him here," Mahanon said as he made the first move.

"Maybe you should talk to him." Cullen moved his piece.

"What and have him complain about the plight of blood mages while bemoaning the lack of slaves? I don't think so." He moved another piece.

Cullen looked up sharply. "Lavellan, that was cruel and unfair."

Mahanon looked up from the board in surprise at the anger he heard in Cullen's voice, then his own eyes hardened. "Truly, you think so? Then why don't you cozy up to him and when your loved ones are killed and your friends sold to slavers then we'll see just how cruel and unfair you think I'm being," he said. Scanning the board Mahanon saw an opening that he could take if he cheated. Usually Mahanon would play fair but right now, he wasn't exactly in the mood to play fair. He made the move.

"You can't keep painting everyone you see with the same brush based on a few bad experiences. Next you'll be telling me that all mages are blood mages because a lot of them joined the Venatori, or all Templars, including myself, are tyrants because of what happened at the Kirkwall circle."

"No," Mahanon countered, "only those who deserve it. And I've yet to meet a decent Vint yet."

"You already have if you would just talk to him."

Mahanon groaned and said, "Look, this isn't what I came here to talk about."

"You came here to talk about something? I thought it was to lose at chess."

"What?" Mahanon looked down at the board. Sure enough, he had lost. "How did you-"

Cullen just laughed. "Dorian cheats too. You actually have a fair bit in common." Seeing Mahanon's scowl though, Cullen rose both hands placatingly before he reset the board. "All right, what was it that you came to talk about."

"Laying siege to Adamant fortress," Mahanon said. "That's where the Grey Wardens are holed up, attempting to summon enough demons to destroy any arch demons in the deep roads. Or so they believe. More likely it's a ruse of Corypheus sine he has gained complete control over any mages who perform the blood ritual. We need to take Adamant fortress and stop them." He made his first move.

"That's not good," Cullen said as he made his move.

Mahanon scoffed. "Understatement of the year," he commented.

"I know the fortress, not well, sure, but well enough to know that it will be a tough battle. I take it Leliana doesn't have any kind of covert way to take it that won't cost so many lives?"

Mahanon shook his head. "I asked and she said she could get agents in, perhaps even enough to make a difference if we had several months to do so. Since we don't, that leaves only aggressive diplomacy as Josephine calls it."

Cullen gave a snort at that. "Aggressive diplomacy. I'll have to remember that one. It won't be easy but it should be do-able. We'll have to transport lumber there as there's not enough to serve our purposes nearby. If we build some catapults, they can harry the walls while a battering ram smashes in the door. That dwarf in Bull's chargers, what's his name, the guy who likes explosions."

"Rocky," Mahanon provided.

"Yes him. He may be able to bring down a wall or two."

"Then it'll be man to man fighting," Mahanon said, and Cullen gave a single nod. "We'll have to kill the mages, they're entirely under Corypheus's control, those who haven't turned into abominations already. But the fighters might be reasoned with." Mahanon sighed. "Soon enough the Inquisition will be responsible for the destruction of all mages," he said fiddling with the mage chess piece before placing it.

Ironically, Cullen took it with one of his own Templar pieces. "No," he said. "We are restoring order, saving the common folk. We do not set out to destroy them, they are being destroyed because of their own actions."

"I hope others see it that way," Mahanon said.

For a time the two of them played in silence. Mahanon didn't try to cheat again and even managed to win a game or two legitimately. It was nice, Mahanon thought, so long as he didn't bring up any disagreeable subjects.

"I bet you don't get a bath with hot water running straight to it," Mahanon suddenly said teasing.

Cullen gave a bark of laughter. "Maker, no. I still have a hole in the roof above my bed."

"Wait, what? Seriously?" Mahanon exclaimed, sure that Cullen was jesting. But the man nodded. Mahanon grunted. "I'll have a word with Josephine about her priorities. It's nice having my own fancy room and all, but rooves have to be fixed."

"It's fine. We're having trouble getting the wood here. Give it time for the traders to add Skyhold to their routes, especially when word spreads that we'll pay, and we will have supplies a plenty."

"We should put the word out that we're hiring a proper healer," Mahanon said.

"A proper healer? As opposed to an improper one?"

Mahanon snorted. "As opposed to a mage. We have some mage healers here, good ones, but not everyone is comfortable having magic used on them, and they could potentially die just for refusing magical healing. If Adan were still alive it would be different, but since he's not we need to find someone just as good."

Cullen nodded. "I'll tell Josephine to send out word."

They lapsed into a companionable silence once more. Mahanon had been thinking about what Bull had said to him back in Haven, how he had raised a wall between himself and Cullen. He hadn't really thought too much on it then as he never really considered himself the leader of the Inquisition, by the dread wolf he was supposed to have returned home by now! Now that he was, however, he couldn't allow his personal feelings or awkwardness to come between himself and his advisers. They had started to put it past each other, ignoring it during the battle of Haven but, with little else that had happened to distract them, it had started to return to its former awkwardness. Mahanon didn't want that so he had come to the gardens, yes to gather the clippings he was growing, but also to seek Cullen out, to talk and try to regain at least some of the easiness that had once been between them. He hoped that it was working, that this peace would last. Mahanon and Cullen may never be able to be more than friends, but that didn't mean they had to be less than friends either.

It started with a tickle in the throat that Mahanon simply ignored. As it grew stronger though, he was forced to actually try to clear his throat. Repeatedly. When that failed to ease it, the coughing started. Concerned, Cullen stood and moved a couple steps away only to come back soon after with a glass of red wine which he offered to Mahanon. Taking it, Mahanon took a gulp, coughed once more, and took another. It seemed to ease it and he sat back relieved. "Thank you," he said. Looking at the wine he took another, more appreciative sip and smiled. "A good vintage to be wasting just to relieve a cough."

"Well I was sharing it with Dorian - that man does appreciate good alcohol - but there was some left and it was all I had to hand," Cullen said. "Are you all right?"

Mahanon smiled. "Fine, why?"

"That cough-"

Mahanon waved it off. "It was just a tickle in my throat that didn't want to let go. It's been annoying me since we left Haven, probably haven't given myself enough time to get over it, that's all."

"But-"

"Don't worry about it Cullen! Do I look sick?" he asked.

"Well, no," Cullen was forced to admit.

"Exactly. I'm fine. Now are you forfeiting this game now that I'm winning or are you going to play?"

"Ha! You only wish you were winning," Cullen declared and with that the two of them returned to their game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so horrible writing about Dorian in such a nasty way! Mahanon you're an arse some times!


	13. Tal Vashoth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which The Iron Bull becomes Tal Vashoth and things kind of start heating up a little

An alliance with the Qunari was something Mahanon could not pass up, especially with the siege of Adamant looming. Truthfully, he had not expected much to come of Bull's ben hassrath reports other than some intelligence on Venatori movements, intelligence that they had utilized on occasion, though sending the Chargers more often than for Mahanon to go personally.

So it was that he found himself once more on the Storm Coast where he had first met Bull. Mahanon smiled to himself at the memory; it was raining just as much now as it had been then. Last time he had gone to check out a mercenary company that was recommended to them by a Vint, full of the suspicion such a person gave but also with the curiosity about what mercenary company in their right mind would want to sign up with the heretics that the Inquisition was at that stage. Now, he had that very mercenary company and their very capable leader watching his back. It wasn't that Mahanon didn't trust the other members of his party - quite the opposite, most of them he would trust with all their lives without a second thought - but with Bull at his side he actually felt protected, knowing that the big qunari was looking out for him and the Inquisition as a whole. Much better than being against him, that was for sure; Mahanon had seen what destruction and devastation Bull could wield when riled up.

He understood, of course, that not all qunari were equal, but if only half of the qunari who joined forces with the Inquisition were as strong as Bull was, he had no doubt that such an alliance would be worth any cost, monetary or otherwise.

He was surprised, however, when they arrived at the meeting point to find an elf waiting for them. Nonetheless, Bull and the elf greeted each other as old friends and he was introduced to Gatt. They spoke for a while on what was to be done, before the Chargers left to take one hill and Bull, Gatt, and Mahanon to take the other. From there they would be able to cover the dreadnaught's approach.

"Bull," Mahanon said. He tilted his head to the side indicated that he wanted to speak privately with him. "There something about this alliance I should be concerned with?" he asked. Bull was silent, simply looking off over the bay where the dreadnaught was due to arrive. "You seem more reserved and apprehensive today."

"Hmph, since when did you get skilled at reading people." Mahanon smiled, pleased with the backhanded praise but he simply waited. "It's strange. I follow the Qun, I believe in the Qun, its role and its values. But it's always been... over there," he waved his hand vaguely. "With them coming here it's just... hnrr."

Mahanon nodded, understanding, but before he could say anything, Gatt called them impatiently and though he sighed in irritation, Mahanon did nothing but trot to keep up as they made their move on the hill.

*

"They're my men," Bull growled.

"I know, but you need to do what's right, Hissrad. For this alliance, and for the Qun," Gatt argued.

Mahanon glanced over to where the Chargers were readying themselves for what would likely by the last fight of their lives. They would hold and give their lives holding that position, Mahanon had no doubt about that. They could survive and win, they were skilled and led by Krem, they had the best chance they could have without being led by Bull personally. But they might not either and if Bull, who knew them better than anyone, thought it would be their last fight, then Mahanon believed it would be.

"The Qun isn't always right," Mahanon said. "Call the retreat Bull, don't abandon your men," Mahanon said, weighing in when Bull seemed to remain indecisive.

"Don't!" Gatt countered, but, thankfully, Bull paid him no mind and he blew the horn with just enough time that they were able to slip away unharmed.

Mahanon gave a sigh of relief at the sight. "Thank the Creators," he breathed. He had grown to like the Chargers and would often come join them for dinner in the tavern. He even liked Krem and most of the time managed to forget he was from Tevinter. He trusted them and trust was hard to come by when the Grey Wardens, the Templars, even the Mages, those who should have been heroes, had all seemed to turn to madness. He didn't want to see them sacrificed, couldn't see them sacrificed for an alliance with forces he didn't know and didn't entirely trust. No doubt he would be chewed out for it by Cullen when they returned to Skyhold, possibly destroying the fragile truce they had built up since Mahanon's embarrassing advances in Haven, but Mahanon didn't care at that point. Knowing that the Chargers were alive and well and ready to continue fighting beside him was what mattered.

Gatt didn't seem to agree. "All these years Hissrad, and you throw away all that you are? For what? For this? For them?"

That flared a deep anger within Mahanon and he stalked forward towards Gatt, his hands instinctively going to his daggers. He felt Bull's hand on his shoulder but shrugged it off. He wasn't going to attack as much as he felt like it. He wouldn't dirty himself with that.

"Hissrad means liar, yes? That's what you said earlier? That is not who I see here, not behind me. In front of me, perhaps, but behind me I only see Bull. The Iron Fucking Bull. So I think you should leave now, _Hissrad_. You're -"

Mahanon was cut off by an explosion and he flinched, his mind instantly flicking back to another explosion and the burning body of a friend he had been unable to save. That wasn't now, however, and though they could feel the heat coming from the ocean, there was not the concussive wave.

"I thought it would sink. I thought we could mop up the Venatori and try to pull survivors from the ocean," Mahanon said quietly, his heart pounding. Had he done more than just cost the Inquisition an alliance? How many people had he just condemned to a fiery death?

"Qunari dreadnaughts don't sink," Bull said, his voice heavy with emotion. "Come on. Let's go see my boys."

*

The journey back to Skyhold was a quiet and sedate one. Even the normally boisterous Chargers seemed to sense that now was not the time for their antics and the normal teasing and mocking simply did occur. Mahanon remained close to Bull but, taking his cue from the Chargers, mostly remained silent. Nonetheless, he wanted Bull to not feel as though he were alone even if he was tal vashoth officially now.

Almost as soon as they arrived, a messenger ran up summoning Mahanon to a meeting with his advisers. He hesitated though, watching as Bull stalked off towards the tavern.

"Go on," Krem said coming up behind him and seeing Mahanon's dilemma. "We'll look after him, make sure the drinks don't stop flowing. Truthfully I think we have the easier job."

The corner of Mahanon's mouth twitched at that and he nodded. "Thank you," he said. "If you or he needs anything, let me know. I would almost welcome the interruption."

Krem nodded. "We will," he said before heading off.

*

It was two days before Mahanon heard from Bull. Part of him wanted to chase him down himself, but another part knew that he had to come to terms with this change in his own way. Instead Mahanon tried to busy himself with other things, one of which was approaching Josephine and asking her to track down various medicines to send to his clan. He was deliberately vague about what he needed or what they were for, instead just saying that their Keeper was the only one skilled at healing left and she needed the help. Josephine offered to send her some of the Inquisition's healers but Mahanon refused; Keeper Deshana wouldn't want outsiders knowing the full extent of what was happening to the clan and outsiders would run the risk of word going out. With the medicines, he penned a letter but kept it brief, explaining that while he had found himself in the role of Inquisitor he did not forget his home or his family, and that he would continue trying to do what she had asked of him with the Inquisition's backing. He hoped it was vague enough that anyone who intercepted it wouldn't think anything of it but also enough to reassure her that he hadn't abandoned his responsibilities to Clan Lavellan.

Cullen had left before they arrived to ready things closer to where the Adamant siege would occur, Josephine was in deep negotiations with Orlais to ensure Mahanon received an invite to the ball the queen was throwing, and all the while more people flocked to Skyhold. The castle had become quite busy and was actually starting to look more like a home that could be welcoming to guests as opposed to the ramshackle, falling down stone buildings it had been. Things were happening all around him, everyone was busy and it left Mahanon feeling a little lost.

He was pleased when he finally received word from Bull that he wanted to speak to him up on the ramparts and immediately excused himself from going over scout reports with Leliana to meet with him. If Leliana thought it odd or strange she said nothing about, merely nodded with a smile and waved him off.

Climbing the stairs he saw Bull leaning against the wall looking out over the mountains. For all that he had seen how much he was drinking of late - and heard of Carbot needing to double the amount of alcohol he was making and buying - he looked perfectly fine. Mahanon shook his head to himself; no wonder he hadn't been able to keep up with him the other month when he had been introduced to the Chargers.

"You wanted to see me?" He asked as he approached. Glancing over his shoulder (well ok, around his waist since over his shoulder would have Mahanon looking up into the sky), Mahanon frowned a little seeing Inquisition soldiers walking towards them, and not just a casual walk either. They had a purpose. As they drew closer blades came out and they launched themselves at Bull.

The qunari was ready, however, and spun around, smashing one guy in the face. "Bull!" Mahanon shouted, just as a dagger lodged itself in his shoulder.

Mahanon had his daggers out and was about to launch himself at the other when Bull said, "I got it!" Reluctantly he held back, understanding that Bull wanted to handle this himself, but he kept his daggers out and ready; he would hold back once but if he had to he was joining in regardless of what Bull may have wanted.

The qunari seemed to have things well under control, however. Of the two attackers one was already dead, his own weapon lodged in his chest. The other said something in the qunari tongue but Bull simply picked him up like he weighed nothing and tossed him over the ramparts. "Yeah, yeah, my soul is dust. Yours is scattered all over the ground though so..."

Despite himself, Mahanon smirked at that as he sheathed his daggers. "You knew they were coming, didn't you," Mahanon said as he approached the one on the ground, pulling the axe out, tossing it aside and looking him over.

"Yeah. Sorry Boss, I thought I might need back up and, slight as you are, those knives of yours can be pretty deadly."

"Daggers," Mahanon growled. He couldn't find anything identifying on this one that gave any hint that he wasn't exactly as he appeared, one of the scouts the Inquisition used. Though, he supposed, with so many joining their ranks fleeing the madness and seeking the stability the Inquisition offered, it was bound to allow some spies in. "I'll have to have a talk to Leliana about how they could have got in. How did you find out?"

"Little change in the guard rotation tipped me off," Bull said, leaning against the rampart wall with his arms folded across his chest.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mahanon asked, a little put out that he hadn't been trusted enough to take care of it. Standing and leaving the dead man where he lay, he instead walked over to Bull to look at the wound in his shoulder.

"You go through years of ben hassrath training when I wasn't looking?" Bull asked. Mahanon glanced up, opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. Bull chuckled to himself. "Exactly. It's not personal, boss. I trust you to watch my back, if I didn't you wouldn't be here. But I let you know, you'll jump in and try to fix things and they'll be tipped off. Better I just pretend that I wasn't aware of them and let them come to me."

"They could have used poison though," Mahanon pointed out as he pressed on either side of the gash to make it bleed and make sure any poison that was in it came out.

"Oh they definitely used poison. Saar-garmek, liquid form. If I hadn't been dosing myself with the antidote I'd be going crazy and puking my guts up right now. As it is, it stings like shit but that's about it," Bull said.

"Are you sure? I'm no healer but we're getting some good ones coming in now."

"I'm fine. Hurt myself worse than this fooling around in bed," Bull said, flippantly waving off Mahanon's concern.

Mahanon, for his part, smirked at that imagining it. "With those horns, I don't doubt it," he quipped.

"Hey, my horns are great in bed. They're useful," Bull protested.

Mahanon just laughed. "Come on, let's see about getting some pay back," he said, leading the way along the ramparts.

"Against who? The entire ben hassrath?" Bull pointed out as he followed. Mahanon supposed that was a good point; the ones who had attacked him were dead already and the Inquisition had enough enemies without adding the whole of the Qunari to the list. "Besides, this wasn't serious. Sending two guys with blades against me? That's not a hit, that's a formality. Just making it clear that I'm tal vashoth." Bull practically growled that word out. "Tal va-fucking-shoth."

Mahanon nodded. He knew that Bull had played the role of a tal vashoth for years while secretly working for the ben hassrath. But he also knew there was a difference between playing pretend and having that pretend become real.

"I killed hundreds of tal vashoth in Saheron. Bandits, murderers, bastards who turned their back on the Qun, rapers who would rather destroy civilians than face me in an honest fight. Rotten to the core, every last one of them. And now I'm one of them."

Mahanon turned to face Bull, standing in front of him so the qunari was forced to stop and look down at him. "No you're not," he said firmly. "I may not know everything about the Qun but it does have some good values. For a start it raised you to be the good man you are now. To think of others before yourself for one. You did that, back there on the beach. You put the lives of your men, men who follow you, respect you, love you, above that of your own standing within the Qun. That takes guts, Bull, and guts you have. You are not Hissrad any more. You're The Iron Bull, mercenary captain for the Inquisition and we're doing what is right without taking short cuts."

A slow smile spread over Bull's face at that, genuine and grateful Mahanon thought, though as had already been pointed out, he was no ben hassrath face reader. "I can live with that," Bull said quietly.

"Good," Mahanon said. "And if you truly feel the need for worship I can teach you what I know of elven gods. There's a whole pantheon for you to pick and choose from. We could even tattoo your face with a valaslin."

Bull laughed at that and Mahanon smiled. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass; I'd rather just worship you instead." Mahanon's smile spread into a grin at that taking it as a compliment that Bull trusted in his leadership. "Anyway, I'll get this cleaned up and let Red know what happened. Boss? Whatever I miss, whatever I regret... this is where I want to be, this is where I belong now. Whenever you need an arse kicked, The Iron Bull is with you."

"I'll count on it," Mahanon replied, and he left it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been rearranging the planned chapters from how they were originally played in the game to work better with my story and how my character is developing. Mahanon is happier, he gets with Bull sooner. Hopefully you lovely readers will be happier as well :)


	14. What an Inquisitor Needs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull and Mahanon enjoy each other's company. Intimately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have changed the rating on this to Explicit and added a couple of tags for what is covered in this chapter. I imagine it won't be an issue for the vast majority of readers (since we generally know what the Bull relationship involves) but if you're unsure be sure to check over them again.

It seemed that Bull had meant more than just worshipping Mahanon's leadership skills. After ensuring that he was alright, and just sleeping off the remaining effects of the poison, Mahanon's time had been almost completely claimed with Inquisition business. There were nobles to meet and greet, crimes to preside over, and paperwork to deal with. He was carrying a stack of paperwork up to his room right now, in fact. The sun was setting and it cast a beautiful red glow throughout his room but, even when the sun went down, Mahanon figured he would be at this for hours; the candles would get used tonight. It wasn't really something he was looking forward to, but it had to be done.

Over the last couple months since they had arrived at Skyhold and made the castle their home, Mahanon had slowly become used to servants moving in and out of his room when he wasn't there, tidying and taking his laundry, returning it just as mysteriously. He had spoken briefly to Josephine about it, but she assured him that all of the servants were eager to serve him however they could. They had to organize a roster and use it as a reward system for good work in fact. Though to be fair, part of that was because taking care of his things was rather easy since Mahanon was a tidy person by nature. So it was that seeing the fire in the hearth already lit and warming the room was not unexpected.

What was expected was the rather large qunari sitting on his bed.

"Bull," Mahanon said by way of greeting. "What are you- is something wrong?"

Bull didn't answer him though, not directly anyway. "So listen, I've caught the hints, I get what you're saying. You want to ride the bull."

Mahanon's eyebrows shot up at that; that was not what he had been expecting when he saw Bull sitting there waiting for him. "Well, yes," he admitted, determinedly ignoring the colour that threatened to rise higher than his neck. "But I didn't think you reciprocated."

"I needed to know a few things first."

"And... did you find them?" Mahanon asked.

"Mhm. The thing is though," Bull stood, "I'm not sure you know exactly what you're asking. Not sure you're truly ready for it."

Mahanon's eyes blazed at that. Not ready for it? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? "It's been many years since I was a shy virgin," he snapped irritably. "Of course I'm ready for it."

Bull was practically strutting towards him, every step he made almost screaming 'sex'. "See you say that, but you really don't know what that means."

Bull was close to him now, much closer than he had ever stepped before. "I-" Mahanon stuttered, flustered by the way Bull was acting, and embarrassed at being so flustered about it. In some ways it seemed out of character - Bull had always been relatively distant before and the way he talked about working his way through the serving girls at the Herald's Rest had made Mahanon believe that he only fancied women. He didn't give off the same vibe that Cullen had when they met. Oh, sure they flirted, flirting was fun, but as much as Mahanon may have wished it he didn't delude himself to thinking it would go any further than fun.

Unless that was all this was. Then if that was the case, he would take it as that and just have fun, he decided. It was all he had ever allowed himself to have in the past before things got more serious with Faerel; it would be no different to that. A chance to let off some steam, relax and have fun with someone he liked and trusted. "Well then, unless it involves animals or a full Inquisition orgy you better show me exactly what it is you mean."

Bull was nearly up against him now and one hand took a hold of Mahanon's wrist, the other taking his other wrist. Both were raised above his head as Bull kept walking forward, forcing Mahanon to step backwards until his back bumped against the wall. One of Bull's legs slipped between Mahanon's and, with both his wrists pinned against the wall above his head he was held rather helpless. Bull's free hand slipped inside Mahanon's jacket to rest lightly against his waist.

"Last chance," Bull offered, his voice low and soft.

"Don't you dare stop now," Mahanon breathed, trying his best to sound threatening and failing miserably. "Just... a little slower, but a lot harder." The small intrigued smile that spread over Bull's face was worth it all, Mahanon thought. His arms were released and he let them drop but Bull simply wrapped a large arm around Mahanon's small waist and pulled him close. He was walking again and Mahanon had no choice but to allow himself to be pulled along with him. With a push, Mahanon fell backwards on the bed, the back of his knees hitting the edge and making it just that much easier.

Bull straightened then, and just looked down at Mahanon sprawled backwards on the bed. His gaze was long and intense enough that Mahanon started to squirm uncomfortably. "Bull," he started but then Bull moved and placed one large finger against his lips gesturing him to silence.

"One word," he said. "I'll give you one word to say. Katoh. Repeat it for me."

Mahanon frowned. "What does it mean?"

"Repeat it," Bull insisted.

"Katoh," Mahanon said.

"Translated it means an ending, or perhaps perfection depending on the context. In this case, you say that and whatever I'm doing stops instantly, no guilt, no questions asked."

Mahanon smirked, sure of himself, "Oh I'm sure-"

The finger was once more against his lip silencing him and, grinning, Mahanon complied. "Now," Bull said. "Get undressed." Mahanon sat up and started tugging off his clothes, tossing them beside the bed as soon as they were off. His shirt and jacket removed, he rose onto his knees and started to undo his breeches.

"Wait," Bull said. Mahanon looked up a little confused. "Stay there, like that." Mahanon did as he was bade but watched curiously as Bull knelt down beside the bed and came up with a length of silk.

"You came prepared," Mahanon observed, a wry smile on his lips.

"Always," Bull said. He came closer to Mahanon, wrapped one arm around his waist. The other gave Mahanon a firm slap on the arse that caused the elf to yelp. "That was for speaking when I said not to."

"But I-" He broke off with another yelp as he was smacked again, harder this time. Bull rose an eye brow at him, though his mouth twitched with amusement. Mahanon pouted but remained silent. Looking down he saw the evidence that Bull was enjoying this as much as Mahanon had, surprisingly, just enjoyed being told off.

Bull moved Mahanon back a little so he was near the corner of the bed and, taking both of his hands, he tied the silk around his wrists, holding them fast together. "Too tight?" he asked. Mahanon shook his head. "Good boy," Bull praised. Mahanon's eyes narrowed a little at being called a 'good boy' - that sounded like he was being praised like a dog - but his facial expression only made Bull chuckle. His wrists were raised above his head then and the trailing end of the silk tied to the bed post. Mahanon now wondered at the wisdom of asking Josephine if she could find him one of the four poster beds that humans seemed to love so much to try.

"What would Josephine say if she knew the bed she had procured for me was being used for this," Mahanon said, a playful smirk playing about his face giving away that he was fully aware of the whole 'say nothing' stipulation and choosing to ignore it. Bull just chuckled again and checked the knots. Mahanon waited. And waited. "Nothing this time?" he asked, a little surprised to hear the disappointment in his own voice.

"Oh don't worry, I haven't forgotten," Bull said. Satisfied that the silk ties would hold him, he pulled back to look Mahanon in the eye as he assured him. "You'll pay for both those later. When I choose." Mahanon couldn't deny the thrill that such a threat (or promise?) sent through him. "Now though," Bull had both his hands on Mahanon's hips and he began to finish undoing the laces. "You get to wait." They were undone now and, with his thumbs slipped under the waistband, he slowly began to push them down. "And imagine." His breeches were now pooled at his knees. He had been going around Skyhold without any boots so he didn't have to worry about that so only his calves still had clothing. A whole lot of good that did. With his arms fastened above his head he was stretched out, his whole body naked from knees up. With his breeches around his knees and the silk ties around his wrists he couldn't move. It all left him feeling particularly aware and vulnerable but instead of hating it, with Bull he found his body reacting rather strongly to it. He was safe, and secure, and vulnerable yes, but vulnerable with someone he trusted. Bull was running his finger tips up the sides of his body so lightly that Mahanon could barely feel it. Goose bumps followed in his wake as his fingers trailed up his thighs, his hips, dropped slightly to run under the curve of his buttocks, then rise up over his waist, his chest, his under arms. "And squirm." A low whine escaped Mahanon's throat as those words were murmured against his ear, the vibrations of his voice making it twitch a little.

Bull pulled away slightly with a curious smile playing about his mouth as though he had just discovered something intriguing. "Mmm," Bull hummed. "I like that sound," he said. One hand snaked up to lace his fingers in Mahanon's hair, gripping it firmly but without pain, holding his head still. The other trailed up and down his body while his mouth, that lovely warm mouth, started nibbling on his ear, biting and sucking from lobe to overly sensitive tip. Mahanon's mouth was open and he was breathing heavily, a keening coming from him with every exhalation. He tried to move his head slightly, to turn it so that the nibbling could be more than just a tease, but the grip in his hair held his head still, the grip tightened to pull just a little painfully when he tried. His wrists twisted and pulled, he longed to pull his arms down, to wrap them around Bull, to pull him close, but the knots were too good and held him firm. He couldn't bring his feet forward, the breeches wrapped around his knees prevented that, but he could walk his knees forward! Doing so he managed to press his body against Bull's only briefly before the Qunari pulled away, removing all contact from him entirely.

Mahanon whined. "No fair!" he complained before he could help himself, though he slammed his mouth shut when Bull simply rose an eyebrow at him. That one hadn't been a deliberate tease but Mahanon had no doubt that that would make no difference to Bull.

"That's how you want to play it, is it?" Bull growled.

"Um," was all Mahanon got out before Bull's hands shot out and gripped his hips. Fast as lightning, Bull bent down, near swallowed his penis in his mouth, just enough to tease and make Mahanon gasp and long for more, then he was up again and Mahanon was spun around and left facing the bed, arms pulled almost too tight above him. One of Bull's arms was under his chest, supporting his weight and stopping his shoulders from dislocating, but because he had wriggled his knees forwards just before, he was now left on a downward angle, his knees only just on the edge of the bed and his shins hanging out in the open air. It was impossible to balance on his own. If he had thought he was at Bull's mercy before he was all the more now because he knew that without Bull's arm supporting him he would be seriously hurt. What's more, he could only twist his head so far to see what Bull was doing. "And I thought I was vulnerable before," Mahanon muttered to himself.

Bull laughed deeply at that. "Oh we've just gotten started." That thrill. Again. Truly how could Bull know him so well when Mahanon hadn't even known he would like any of this?

One arm stayed right where it was, carefully keeping him balanced. The other was once more tracing ever so lightly over his skin. Mahanon groaned in frustration and allowed his head to droop forward, his hair shielding his face. There was little else he could do. Bull's free hand was making light circles around the taut muscles of his backside now, around and around. Mahanon could feel Bull leaning over him, could feel the heat of his chest against his bare back, and then he gasped as he felt teeth graze his shoulder, soothing the sting with a kiss. Bull moved further down and repeated the process. Nip, sting, kiss, kiss. Nip, sting, kiss, kiss. Lower, and lower.

_Smack!_

Mahanon yelped and flinched, bucking away. "What the-" he yelped again. Bull struck him with something significantly more solid than his hand right in the sensitive area where his thighs met his backside. "That stings!" he complained.

Bull leaned down and was kissing the hot skin. "It's meant to," he said.

_Smack!_

"Fuck!" Mahanon swore.

"You keep talking you'll never work them off. You only have one word you're allowed to say," Bull teased. "Though I am having fun seeing how many you manage to wrack up." Bull stopped talking and put his mouth to better use, kissing and licking the hot tender skin.

 _Smack smack smack!_ Three quick strikes delivered in quick succession. Mahanon was trembling now, his wrists straining against the ties that held him, his arse and thighs on fire. It was then that he discovered something incredible. Bull's mouth felt amazing on his hyper sensitive skin and he moaned doing his best to try to lift his arse into the air against Bull's mouth. Bull scraped his teeth over the redened skin and Mahanon gasped. "Bull..." he murmured.

"Hmmm?"

"Bull, please... I..." Mahanon tried to lift his arse again. He wanted his penis touched, it was throbbing but he had no idea how to make that want obvious.

"What is it, my sweet?" Still with his elbow under Mahanon's chest, the elf felt the lightest brush against the head of his penis.

Mahanon groaned. "Don't make me beg!"

"No? Very well then." The hand was removed and instead he was rewarded with another resounding smack.

"Fuck!" Mahanon grunted. That one stung more than the others but no sooner had the obscenity left his mouth than three more, each one harder than the last and it left Mahanon gasping, no longer able to swear or curse or even beg. He hung limply against Bull's supporting arm. Well, everything except one particular organ was limp. That one was practically throbbing and twitching of its own volition.

Bull, thank the Creators, paused in punishing his flesh to instead gently love it with soft touches and kisses. "Have you thought about what you want yet?" he asked, the huskiness in his voice giving evidence that this was affecting him nearly as much as it was Mahanon.

Mahanon, however, wasn't falling for that trick! He looked over his shoulder and glared at Bull, deliberately not saying a word. Bull, seeing the look, laughed freely. "You may answer my questions without repercussions. But that is all. Your word, and an immediate answer to my questions. Immediate, or we continue as we were." Mahanon nodded. "Now, have you thought about what you want?" he repeated.

"I want you to touch me," Mahanon got out in a rush.

"That's all? Very well then," Bull said. He put what he was holding on the bed beside Mahanon and it was then that he saw what it was: a black leather wrapped paddle. No wonder it stung so much more than Bull's hand had! He didn't have long to think of it though before Bull complied with his request, in a manner of speaking. He used his mouth and his free hand to roam over Mahanon's body, touching and stroking and rubbing. Everywhere except where he wanted it most.

"That's not what I meant!"

_Smack!_

Mahanon groaned and hung his head once more. Bull had moved so fast with that that he hadn't even seen him pick it up from beside him. His arse and thighs now joined his penis in throbbing in time with his heart beat. Which, at the moment, was particularly fast. But for all that, it felt awfully nice when Bull became gentle once more and he was being so tender and caring to the red punished flesh. Mahanon just wished he would ask him again what he wanted already.

"Shall we try again?" Bull asked eventually. Mahanon nodded frantically, and Bull laughed at his reaction. "A little eager are we?" Again, Mahanon nodded. "Maybe I should ask later." Mahanon groaned loudly. He wanted to tell Bull just how cruel he was being but he didn't think his arse and thighs could take any more of that so he kept his silence. Bull played with him a little more then asked quietly, "Is there something you would like me to do?" His voice was so quiet that Mahanon nearly didn't hear him and very nearly didn't answer in time.

"I want you... to touch... my penis," he got out, his face going bright red as he was forced to actually ask for what he knew, he _knew_ , Bull was aware of. "Please. Please, Bull," he added for good measure.

"Well since you asked so nicely." Bull moved the arm under his chest slightly so that it was under his shoulders instead. His other arm slapped none too gently at Mahanon's thighs - eliciting a wince from the bound elf - and he was shuffled forwards so he no longer had to rely on Bull's arm to keep him upright. Mahanon gave a soft sigh as he was no longer kept in that compromising position. With Bull kneeling on the bed behind him, he was able to lean back against his chest and get some much longed for skin to skin contact. And then, finally, Bull wrapped his hand around his cock. Mahanon practically purred with pleasure as that much longed for sensation was finally realised. Of course, the size difference meant that his penis was entirely enclosed within Bull's hand. But then he started doing this... thing, this massaging thing so that he didn't even need to be stroked. Mahanon's body bucked and his wrists tugged forcefully against the ties and then he came.

Mahanon flushed with embarrassment at how fast it had happened. "I'm sorry, I-" he started stammering.

"Hush," Bull said. Mahanon thought he was going to get another spank for a moment but Bull simply reached up and, with an all too easy flick of his fingers, undid the knots holding his wrists still and gently lowered Mahanon's arms. "I take it as the highest compliment."

Mahanon's arms were tingling and he rubbed his wrists lightly. Gently, handling him as though he were made of glass, Bull carefully lowered Mahanon so that he was laying on his side on the bed, his back still against Bull. Bull must have used a cloth or something to wipe off his hand, Mahanon didn't notice, but he did notice when he took hold of Mahanon's wrists and started rubbing them where the silks had left marks. "They don't hurt too much?" he asked, his voice full of concern and Mahanon felt his chest swell with... no, he wouldn't call it love, that was stupid. With... affection, yes that would do. With affection that Bull would care that such a thing might be hurting him.

"No, barely at all," he said. Nonetheless, Bull continued to rub and massage them and Mahanon let him. He was wearied and it was nice just to lay there and Bull was being so gentle. With his eyes closed, he could just rest and forget all about everything else that was going on around them, just a bubble of peace.


	15. Assassins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ben hassrath are quite pissed off at Mahanon for turning one of their best spies against the Qun and retaliate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rearranged and changed a few more things from the game for this chapter. Hope you still like it.

Three times. Bull was able to make him climax three times. No one had ever done that, and, generally, Mahanon wouldn't have let them. The third time hadn't taken much at all and afterwards, Mahanon had fallen in to such a deep sleep that he hadn't even heard Bull leave. Vaguely he thought he heard voices outside his door but his exhausted mind couldn't even tell who it was or if they were inside his room, outside it, or if he was dreaming the entire thing.

It didn't matter. Miraculously no one had come banging on his door needing his opinion on something or his signature on something or to meet this important person or that important dignitary. He had even managed to sleep in!

Mahanon sighed and allowed his body to slip deeper into the steaming water of the tub, his eyes closed. Truly, this was the best thing about being the Inquisitor. It would be nice if he could keep the bath but give up the mantle but, in truth, he didn't think he would ever choose that now - he was too deeply enmeshed in everything that was going on to just abandon it - but it was a nice thought.

It was two days after Mahanon and Bull had... enjoyed their little session. Afterwards he had been kept largely busy with Inquisition business. One thing that should prove interesting was Leliana deciding that Mahanon needed more training to improve his skills before they marched on Adamant. Various skilled experts had been summoned not just for himself but for anyone who wished to partake of their teachings. They were due to arrive in a few days, after which, according to Cullen's latest message, they would have about three weeks before the Inquisition would be ready to march on Adamant. Three weeks was a long time, but he had to hope that it would take time also for all the Grey Wardens to gather at Adamant from all the corners of the globe. What's more, they had to be prepared; there was no point rushing into a siege before they were completely ready.

For now though, for the rest of the day, he had nothing but time to spend to himself so, of course, he had returned to his room and his favourite bath. Josephine had even surprised him with some scented oils from Orlais and they filled the room with a delightful smell. Here, at least, he could relax and unwind, be himself with no one relying on him, no one demanding his attention. Here he was safe.

Mahanon heard the scuff of a boot in his room outside but ignored it, hoping they would see the room empty and go away. Probably not, the door to his little bathroom was cracked open and he had the water so hot that steam was drawn out through the crack.

"Inquisitor? Are you in? I need to speak to you about something."

Mahanon sighed. Of course they wouldn't leave him alone. He didn't recognise the voice and the accent was strange but he figured it was probably just a scout. The reports had been coming in hard and fast lately. "A moment," he called out wearily before pushing himself out of the bath, water streaming down his body. He had gathered a few new scars in his time with the Inquisition, though all were superficial. In fact the worst injuries he had received to date were the ones to his face from the envy demon. They had left a scar over his eyebrow and to his top lip, and his nose had a slight bump in it but otherwise it had all healed well. He was lucky with that one, Mahanon just hoped he remained lucky. He hadn't been expecting any visitors so hadn't brought his clothes into the bathroom with him. Instead he grabbed one towel and wrapped it around his hips, fastening it there, and the other he draped over his head, drying his hair as he left the room.

As expected there was a scout there, an elven boy, younger than Mahanon was, without his valaslin. City elf, probably, Mahanon thought, drawn to the prospects working for the Inquisition could give. Dropping the towel on his head to hang around his neck, he approached saying, "What is it?"

The scout came close as though he were to show him something. Too late did Mahanon see the punch dagger clenched in his fist. "Vinek kathas!" he shouted as the dagger slammed into Mahanon's unprotected side. Mahanon staggered away. "Anaan esaam qun!" he called again and charged once more at Mahanon. Not having his daggers, Mahanon was forced to use his forearm to deflect this second attack, pushing the blade aside with his left forearm while his right fist came in swinging. The elf was a child, barely trained, and he quickly fell before Mahanon's attacks. Don't kill him, a part of his mind was shouting, but the rage he felt at being attacked in his own room by people wearing his own colours and the insignia of the Inquisition drove all but that nagging thought from his mind. He took control of the punch dagger and drove it into the boy's throat, pushing him away.

Mahanon had barely taken a breath before he felt a thin wire wrap around his own throat from behind and tighten, immediately cutting off his air. The dagger was dropped as Mahanon futilely clawed at his throat, trying to pull the wire away. He tore skin and his nails bent and broke but he couldn't lift it. Nothing! He could get nothing in! His chest worked frantically, his throat spasmming but no air could get past. He hadn't realized it before but the rope he had been hanged with had left some space, not enough to remain conscious but more than this. Terror flooded through Mahanon and he fought to shout, to twist loose, anything!

Vaguely past the roaring in his ears he thought he heard someone knocking on the door, calling his name. His attacker, whoever it was, still hadn't made a sound, the elf kid was dead, and Mahanon couldn't get any air past the wire to call out for help or shout warning. Whoever it was would likely leave soon figuring he wasn't there. Unless... frantically he looked around. His fingers were still digging at his neck of their own volition but there was a small table nearby. Mahanon was on his knees - when had that happened? - but he allowed himself to collapse on his side and kicked his legs out, hooking one of the legs and sending the table tumbling. There was a vase of flowers on it that shattered to the ground. He hoped that would be enough to make it obvious that something wasn't right and whoever it was would come up and help.

*

Cassandra jumped when she heard the crash, but no sound followed. She exchanged a look with Leliana and the two of them raced up the stairs, sure now that something was wrong. Cassandra paused at the top of the stairs, taking in the destruction but Leliana did not. Cassandra had never seen her move so fast, she launched at the attacker that had Mahanon on the ground. "See to the Inquisitor," she snapped.

Lavellan was still laying on the floor, clawing weakly at his neck. Cassandra hurried over and grimaced seeing the garrotte that he had been attacked with still embedded in the flesh around his neck. Carefully, she pulled it away. Kneeling, she rolled him onto his back and cradled his head in her lap. He was still conscious, but seemed somewhat out of it, his eyes wide and roving around the room, his fingers still clutching at his neck almost rhythmically even thought he wire was gone, tossed aside.

Hearing a scream, Cassandra looked up to see that Leliana had subdued the remaining attacker and was in the process of interrogating him. Cassandra looked away and instead chose to focus on Lavellan, ignoring what Leliana was doing; it had to be done, she knew that, the attacker was wearing the garb of one of Leliana's spies, but that didn't mean she had to enjoy it being done in the same room as she was. Instead she turned her focus to Mahanon. The garrotte had cut him where his muscles had bulged against it and his neck was covered in fingernail scratches from where he had tried to loosen it. Cassandra took hands in hers and moved them away from his neck - the fingers were digging into the cuts as though he could still feel the wire there. "Come on, Lavellan, you can breath now," she encouraged quietly. His chest was heaving and, leaning over him, she could hear the whistle of his breath going in and out. There was little more she could do for that, his breathing would likely improve as his throat recovered. She instead turned her gaze to search for other injuries.

And then noticed that Lavellan was naked. Almost instantly heat flooded Cassandra's face and she cast about, seeing a towel lying nearby pulled it over his hips. Of course, that was how he had been caught unprepared. She had seen Lavellan fight, she knew that he was fast, that he seemed to be able to completely control a battle by dodging around enemies, his knives flicking out with expert ease. For him to have been caught this unawares and be overwhelmed by only two others meant he hadn't been expecting it at all. Which would have been the case if he had been in the bath. He had fought though; the dead assassin and the guard wound on his forearm was evidence to that. His side was bleeding as well, she noticed now and, looking around the room, she saw the fallen dagger.

"Leliana," she called.

"Not now, Cassandra."

"Lavellan has been stabbed." That got her attention and she glanced over her shoulder at them. "The dagger is over there, it could have been poisoned."

Leliana's hard eyes shot over to the where the dagger was on the ground before she stood to fetch it. The man on the floor was laughing now; he knew he was dead, but he also knew that they had succeeded. Which meant the dagger was definitely poisoned. "It could be the same poison as Bull's when he was attacked," Cassandra said.

Leliana gave a single nod. "I'll go get him," she said. With the punch dagger in hand, she used it to hobble the surviving attacker, slicing through the tendons behind his ankles; he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. There was another towel nearby and after Leliana had left, Cassandra used one end to hold against Lavellan's side and the other catching his wrist and holding it against that wound, trying to stem the bleeding. Lavellan was breathing a little easier now, though still gasping but perhaps more worrying were the trembles Cassandra could feel racking his body, goose flesh spreading over him.

*

Bull was laughing loudly at a joke Krem made when he caught sight of Red stepping into the tavern, pausing to look around, before locking eyes with him. He grew serious and watched her approach, figuring something must be up.

"The Inquisitor has been attacked. In his own room, by two assassins. He was stabbed twice and very possibly poisoned." Leliana's voice was quiet and didn't carry far but it was firm and Bull could tell by the way she held her lips that she was worried.

As soon as they heard that the Inquisitor was injured, all the Chargers had launched to their feet, reaching for their weapons. All except Bull, who remained where he was seated. "Has word got out that he was attacked yet?" he asked, his voice equally quiet.

Leliana shook her head. "And it should stay that way, at least until we know more. The assassins got to him by masquerading as one of my agents. I know them and they have been in my employ for nearly a year now."

Bull nodded, knowing the implications immediately. If word got out before the situation was under control, any other assassins hiding in their ranks would be spooked. If they were to flush them out they couldn't know something had happened.

"You lot stay here," Bull said.

"But chief-" Krem started.

"Not this time Krem. If you must do something, come up with a way to spread yourselves out without raising any suspicions. But if you can't do it without being conspicuous, then don't. Stitches, you're with me. Bring some of that saar-garmek antidote that you made me." Bull stood.

"That's only made for qunari. It'll be too strong for an elf," Stitches said.

"Then water it down," Bull growled. "Without it he will die, his organs turning to slush." At that he saw Red go a little pale, and Stitches pursed his lips, but he nodded and dug through the bag he always carried to ensure it was there before hefting it over his shoulder. Bull turned to Red and said, "You probably shouldn't follow until later lest someone think you're leading me to him. This way," he jerked his thumb at Stitches, "I was just a bit rough with him last night," he said with a slight smirk, his blasé attitude hiding the rolling nerves in his gut.

He led the way to the Inquisitor's rooms and was pleased to see that they attracted only a few raised eyebrows. Climbing the stairs his single eye took in the room with a glance, noting the dying assassin, the dead one, the shattered vase, bloody wire, and the boss laying on his back nearly naked with his head in Cassandra's lap, shivering.

Bull growled a little seeing that and strode over to the bed, pulling the blanket off it.

"I think the poison is spreading, he won't stop shivering and-"

"Shivering's not a symptom," Bull said shortly. "He's just cold." He tossed the blanket over him.

"Oh," Cassandra said in a quiet voice, her face starting to go red.

She allowed Bull to pull Mahanon from her lap and roll him onto his side. He took one of the towels, tucked it under his head, then shoved two of his fingers in his mouth and down his throat.

"What are you doing!" she demanded as Mahanon started making weak gagging noises.

"What's it look like? I'm getting him to throw up what he's eaten today," Bull said and, as if drawn by his words, Mahanon heaved and threw up all on the towel. "Good boy," Bull murmured quietly, gently stroking his hair and keeping it out of the way until he was finished. Bull then slipped his arms under the elf and carried him to his bed, tucking him in snugly. "Is it ready Stitches?"

"Nearly," the man by the fireplace said. "I'm going to guess that he's about half your mass, so I've diluted it that much."

Mahanon started making retching noises again and Bull rolled him on to his side. He caught his thrashing arms and held his wrists in one hand, keeping him still and just rubbing his back trying to sooth him. When Bull had been attacked by the ben hassrath, he had been taking the antidote for three days in preparation, knowing that it was the preferred poison for tal vashoth. He had not considered that they would also blame the Inquisitor for turning one of their better spies against the Qun. That lapse in judgement may have just cost the Inquisition their Inquisitor. One thing was certain, Bull decided, if Mahanon lived through this Bull would make sure he got the training he needed to avoid such a threat again, to think like an assassin and thus defend himself against them. The ben hassrath would be far from the only enemies who would seek to make an end of him, they were merely the first to come close to succeeding.

"Done," Stitches said, carrying it over.

Still holding the elf's wrists in one hand, Bull lowered the blankets enough to reveal the stab wounds on his forearm and side. The healer splashed some of the hot antidote over the wounds, including the cuts in his neck, scalding the skin and causing Mahanon to cry out wordlessly, his voice little more than a strained croak. Stitches then tipped his head back and slowly started pouring the concoction down his throat. Bull knew that the faster it was absorbed into his system the better but with his throat mangled from the garrotte swallowing would be difficult. Bull would just down the thing in one go - it tasted absolutely foul - but that would be impossible for Mahanon.

"If he's throwing up, wouldn't that just mean he'll throw up whatever antidote he swallows?" Cassandra said, standing anxiously by the bedside watching.

"Probably some of it," Bull replied.

"Once I get this into him and have stitched up his wounds, I'll make some more. He'll have to keep taking it until the nausea passes. By then the poison should be out of his system," Stitches said.

"So he'll live?"

"If he survives the next few hours, he'll live."

"Thank the Maker," Cassandra sighed, her eyelids drifting closed in relief.

Bull looked down at the slight elf and smiled softly to himself. He was a fighter; he seemed vaguely aware of what was going on around him, would follow Stitches and Cassandra with his eyes as they moved about the room and occasionally his eyes would lock on to Bull. Every now and then the poison would seem to take over and he would retch and heave, his limbs thrashing, teeth bared, seeking to fight off Bull's hold. But then it was as though he fought the madness off and he would come back panting and trembling with fatigue, before once more watching what was going on around him. Stitches waited until Mahanon seemed more himself and wasn't thrashing before he quickly and efficiently stitched up the wounds, wiping them with alcohol once he was done to clean them. Bull doubted Mahanon even felt that sting on top of how he knew the wounds were already burning.

"You should give some of that antidote to the assassin over there," Leliana said as she came up the stairs.

"Why bother? He's ben hassrath, been sending reports on the Inquisition for the past year or more," Bull said.

"You know this?" Leliana asked.

"Yeah, knew it when I first saw him sneaking around. I thought he would be one of the ones that came after me. Figured there'd be a follow up attack so I kept taking the antidote. Didn't figure the follow up attack would be here." Bull growled in agitation. "Kill him and be done with it," was all he said further before turning his attention back to Mahanon as he started to thrash about again.

*

Mahanon was fighting off the effects of the poison for two days and, for those two days, Bull barely left his side. Each of the Chargers came in to check on him, once even the entire gang traipsing in. They were making so much noise in trying to liven things up a bit that Cassandra was drawn to it and none too gently kicked them all out. She then took a turn at watching the Inquisitor and making sure he continued to take the antidote, ordering Bull out to rest and regain control over his men.

When Mahanon eventually broke free entirely from the poison's hold, she was still there, reading her book. His whole body felt tired as though he had been running for days, he was hungry, thirsty, and his throat hurt but, more than that, he was amused. Cassandra was reading Swords and Shields, Varric's book. He found it incredibly amusing to learn that the Seeker who had once imprisoned and interrogated the author, was now avidly reading one of his books, her lips moving silently to herself and, on occasion, a little pink colouring her cheeks.

Cassandra must have felt him watching her as she looked up. It took a moment for it to register that his eyes were open and he was watching her a lot more alert than he had been in the past. When she did, the result was pure comedy. She leapt to her feet, exclaiming, "Oh! You're awake! I didn't know, I..." and then she looked away clearly embarrassed and flustered at being caught reading. Mahanon couldn't help but laugh despite the pain it caused.

"What..." he croaked out, then gestured to the book. Talking hurt, a lot.

"Oh this? It's nothing, just reports from Cullen." Mahanon's raised eyebrow let Cassandra know clearly that he wasn't buying it. She sighed and sat down again. "It's one of Varric's books, Swords and Shields. It's literature. Smutty literature." Cassandra was practically glowing with embarrassment at this point and Mahanon couldn't stop grinning.

Pulling an arm from under the blankets, he held his hand out, asking for it. "You want it?" Cassandra asked. Mahanon nodded his head once. "You can't!"

"Why?" Mahanon got out.

"Because... you're the Inquisitor! It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Interested. Bored."

Cassandra opened her mouth, then closed it again and seemed to be coming to a decision. "I should bring you the first one. It's terrible and... wonderful, but this is the latest in the series. You should start at the beginning."

Mahanon nodded and drew his hand back. He had to admit, he was curious about what was in these books of Varric's that would make the Seeker blush so. Tired again, he closed his eyes to rest and was quickly asleep once more.

*

The following day, when Bull entered the Inquisitor's room to check on him, he found him sitting up in bed, his back supported by pillows, with his knees raised and an open book sitting on them. Mahanon looked up from what he was reading hearing Bull enter and broke into a grin seeing him there.

Bull returned the smile and sat on the edge of his bed. "Hey boss, how you feeling?"

"Hungry," Mahanon replied. It still hurt to talk but he could speak a little louder than a soft one word croak now.

Bull laughed at that, "Yeah I bet. Tell you what, I'll sneak you some spiced nug later, cooked nice and slow so it's tender and juicy."

Mahanon's mouth was practically watering at that thought and his stomach gave an appreciative growl. "My saviour," he said, eyes nearly glowing at Bull. He had been kept on a strictly liquid diet since he was awake enough to take food and he hated it! Leliana had visited him and told him of what had happened after he lost consciousness, how the assassins had been ben hassrath and that they were both dead. She also reassured him that she had found another pair and dealt with them, as well as taken steps to ensure that it wouldn't happen again. Mahanon was satisfied, but Leliana seemed to take it as a personal affront, a failure on her part as spy mistress. Nonetheless, the fact that they had kept the assassination attempt a secret meant that Mahanon couldn't leave his room until the evidence had started to fade.

"Yeah, well, don't tell anyone. Can't let word get around that I'm becoming soft," Bull said. "What you reading, anyway?"

"Cassandra's," Mahanon said, noting his page number before handing it over. "I was bored," he explained.

"Swords and Shields huh? Action packed I guess? Looks like it by the cover."

Mahanon snorted, then winced as it hurt his throat. "You could say that."

"'She ran her hand up his leg and... grasped his swollen member?'" Bull burst into laughing at that.

Mahanon snatched it back and flicked a few pages back. "'He ran his tongue over and around her eye of desire and it wept with delight. So soft. So delicate. So moist.'" he read. That had Bull practically howling with laughter. Mahanon was grinning widely, trying not to laugh so it wouldn't hurt too much.

"We probably shouldn't tell the seeker that this is supposed to be comedy. She may take offence and stab me with her pointy sword," Bull said.

"Agreed," Mahanon replied.

"So boss. Tell me true. How are you really?" Bull said, turning more serious.

Mahanon put the book aside. "I'm not nauseous any more and Stitches tells me that means the poison is out of my system. My arm and side still hurt but they are clean and healing fine. Throat hurts if I talk too much and when I swallow."

"No coughing?" Bull asked.

Mahanon shook his head, wondering if that were a symptom of the poison he was supposed to have experienced. "Not really. I'm healing fine, just bored." He grinned. "You could entertain me."

Bull grinned. "I'm sure I could," he said, but he made no move to do so.

"Nobody's ever done to me what you did the other night. It never even crossed my mind to try. I... enjoyed it," Mahanon admitted.

"Of course you did," Bull replied. "Ben hassrath training remember? Grew up learning to manipulate people." Mahanon's eyes narrowed a little at that; he didn't feel as though he had been manipulated - that implied that he did something he hadn't wanted to do - but that was the whole point of manipulation, that the person being manipulated isn't aware that they were. And even thinking that way was giving Mahanon a headache. "When it's a hostile target," Bull continued, "you give them what they want. But when it's someone you care about," he leaned forward and gently cupped Mahanon's cheek. "You give them what they need."

Mahanon reached up and gently pushed Bull's hand away from his face. He wanted to think about this, properly. Bull had manipulated him, he admitted as much. He had tied him up, ordered him not to speak and... done things. Did that mean..? "I won't be your slave," he declared, his eyes flashing angrily. If that was what Bull thought he could forget it! Just because he was an elf it didn't mean he had a perpetuity to slavery! He-

"Of course not," Bull said and, surprising perhaps, his voice was gentle and not offended at all. "Outside of this room, nothing changes. You're the Inquisitor. You're the boss. I give you my word that I will never hurt you without your permission. You will always be safe. Always. And if you're ever uncomfortable, if you ever want me to stop, say 'katoh' and it's over. If you want to talk about it, we will, if not we won't, no questions asked."

Mahanon started to relax some more with these reassurances. And the way Bull said them made Mahanon certain that he mean every word. Still, "It's a little unnerving that you have this down to a system. What about spontaneity? Or have you done it so often with the serving girls that it's all common and boring to you now?"

Bull chuckled. "The serving girls spend most of their time following orders and feeling unimportant. They need someone who makes them feel special, lets em cut loose with no repercussions. I let em bounce on top and tell em their tits look nice. As for the system, well. Systems are comfortable, and I aim to make you very comfortable. Spontaneity comes from within the system. And, as long as we're doing this, you've got my complete, undivided attention. No need for jealousy."

"I wasn't jealous!"

"Sure you weren't."

Mahanon pouted a little, then something else occurred to him. "You said this was what I needed, what do you mean?"

"You're the Inquisitor," Bull said. "You didn't ask for the job, and I remember in Haven you saying you thought it would best if Cassandra were the leader. Nonetheless, you've taken on the responsibility. You've got thousands of lives riding on your decisions. You bare that weight all day."

Mahanon grimaced. "Don't remind me," he muttered.

"I know that. And I also know that you need a place where you can feel safe and surrender the reigns for a bit, let someone else be in charge. I can do that." Mahanon thought back to that night and smiled. He _had_ completely forgotten about his responsibilities for a time. He had been able to live entirely in the moment. And afterwards, he had felt... well exhausted, obviously, but refreshed as well. The weight of his decisions didn't weigh quite so heavily as they had before.

"I think," he said, "that's exactly what I need. But what about you? If that's what I need, then what do you need? Is there something I could do?"

"Hey, I'm good. I'm _better_ than good. Yeah." Bull chuckled. "You don't need to trouble yourself on that front. I get a kick out of working out what makes people tick and then... ticking them. So don't worry about me. Ol' Iron Bull is just fine."

"You get a kick out of working out what makes people tick, huh?" Mahanon asked, a sly smile forming on his lips. "Then what makes me tick right now? What is it you think that I want." As if it wasn't obvious.

Bull chuckled and leaned forward, his hand returning to Mahanon's face and this time the elf allowed it. Softly, gently, they kissed. Mahanon wrapped his arms around Bull's shoulders, one arm going behind his back and the other wrapping up to drape itself over one of his horns, holding him in place. Just as he started to move with the intention of climbing into Bull's lap though, the qunari broke away. "No," he said. "Not yet. When you're fully healed."

"I _am_ fully healed," Mahanon insisted.

"Tell you what," Bull said. "You manage to eat the entire meal I'll bring you later without wincing, and I'll find something more interesting for you to do with your mouth."

"Deal!" Mahanon instantly agreed. He pushed Bull away, saying, "Now go fetch me my dinner already!"

Bull laughed and rose his hands in surrender, backing away. "Enjoy your book," he said with a laugh as he left the room.


	16. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mahanon gets some much needed training in preparation for Adamant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter that wasn't supposed to be this long. It was only planned to be around 1000 words before leading into the next but then the characters got control and it kind of exploded. So rather than force you to wait for an uber long chapter you instead get a rather long chapter and another to come.

 

Much to Mahanon's disappointment, he hadn't been able to make it through that meal without wincing. What was worse was the sudden solid rich food had caused him to throw it all up again. It was a waste! After he and Bull were thoroughly scolded by both Cassandra and Josephine for being so irresponsible and putting his recovery at risk, he was told that one of the specialized trainers had heard of the attack (something that had apparently pissed Leliana off) and offered her services, a dalish elf named Heir.

 

Mahanon was sleeping when he actually met Heir. Thinking this training would start first thing in the morning, he had got an early night, wanting to get as much rest as he could so he wouldn't appear so weak after so long being abed.

 

He came awake with a start, feeling the prick of a blade by his throat and scrabbled away, falling rather ungracefully out the other side of the bed. Climbing hastily to his feet he caught sight of a dalish elf standing calmly near his bed, dagger in hand held low by her side. He was instantly put in mind of his most recent attackers and reached under his pillow to take hold of the bared dagger he had started keeping there so he wouldn't be caught weaponless again.

 

"It is good you have learned from your recent attack. But you would still be dead," the woman said. It was only now that Mahanon realised she wasn't wearing the Inquisition insignia that the other assassins had. Her clothes were very dalish in style, similar to what Mahanon had worn when travelling to the Conclave. Still though, she made no further move to attack him and slowly his heart started to slow down once more. As she had said, he would be dead if she had wanted to kill him.

 

"Who are you?" he asked.

 

"You may call me Heir. Now. Attack me, let me see where your skills are at."

Heir. Of course she would want to train in the middle of the night. Mahanon sighed. "Fine. Just let me put some clothes on first," he said. He was wearing nothing other than his undershorts and the light bandages holding his dressings in place.

 

"No need," Heir said. "Come at me."

 

"I'm not fighting you in my underclothes!" Mahanon protested. "It will only take a minute."

 

He turned to go to his dresser but had only taken three steps before his arm was twisted, forcing him to drop the dagger, and he was tossed bodily aside. As if being woken up in the middle of the night wasn't enough, he also broke his landing with his already sore arm, the bandages slipping a little. He sat up and glared at the woman.

 

"Pick up your weapon and come at me," she said, her voice still infuriatingly calm.

 

Mahanon undid the bandages at his arm and around his chest, deliberately taking his time in removing them and the dressings and tossing them aside out of the way. He probably didn't need them any more anyway but he preferred to keep them covered when he slept so that fluff from the blanket didn't stick to the wounds if they bled at all during the night. Only then did he pick his dagger up and turn to face Heir.

 

Only she was gone. "Dread wolf take you, where are you now!" he snapped.

 

He felt a prick to the back of his neck and spun around, leaping back to find Heir standing behind him.

 

"You are too angry to fight. You will not learn what I have to teach if you learn it in anger."

 

Mahanon opened his mouth to tell her exactly what she could do with his anger, but then closed it again. He was already in his advisor's bad books for being caught out and attacked in the first place, and then for not taking his recovery seriously. He really didn't want to see Josephine actually get more than irritated at him, or, worse, see Leliana actually angry, both of whom he would have to face if he drove this teacher away without her actually teaching him anything. And really, what was he angry at? There was no mocking in Heir's voice, infact it was almost absent of emotion, only the slight down turn of her lips letting him know that she wasn't actually tranquil. No, he realised, he was just angry at himself for being caught off guard three times already.

 

Hunter mode. That was what he needed. Taking a breath and slowly letting it out again, Mahanon rose his eyes to Heir and the single nod she gave.

 

"Good."

 

She had barely finished speaking the word before Mahanon launched forwards. He knew he would not manage to strike her so had no fear that his sharp blade may cause injury; it was no different to when he had learned his skills in the Lavellan camp. Mahanon was fast, he had always been fast, but against Heir, he always seemed to be striking where she had been instead of where she was now.

 

"You are predictable," Heir said as she seemed to flow around his strikes. "You use the same three moves over and over again, varying only the speed and direction with which they come. You rely upon your oponants inexperience in fighting someone as fast as you or, worse, rely on others to take the kill for you. Stop."

 

Mahanon stopped and, only when she saw that he was not going to launch at her again did she lower her own weapon.

 

"Slowly. If you were going to kill me where would you strike?"

 

"I would attempt to slice your throat. Quick and clean," Mahanon said.

 

"Show me."

 

"Full speed?" Mahanon asked; the last thing he wanted to do was to catch her off guard because she expected him to go slowly.

 

"Slowly once. Then full speed after."

 

Mahanon gave a single nod and stepped in, crossed his arms, then uncrossed them against Heir's neck, pretending to slice it open as he had countless times before when facing a true enemy. Heir gave a single nod, saying only, "Again."

 

Mahanon repeated the movement full speed this time, but he had barely started coming towards the woman when a foot slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind from him and pushing him back several steps. He had managed to hold on to his daggers but that was about all that could be said. Heir, meanwhile, merely returned her foot down beside her, balanced perfectly on the balls of her feet.

 

"Never attack from in front, it leaves you open and assassins have no idealistic ideals of honour to preserve." Mahanon straightened and rubbed his stomach a little where Heir's foot had struck him. Like he did, she seemed to prefer going bare foot but the kick had felt as solid as if she were wearing those thick boots Mahanon was supposed to wear in the snow.

 

"Why do you go straight for the throat?"

 

"If I'm successful they're dead very quickly," Mahanon replied. In truth he hadn't really thought about why, he just did it.

 

"And if you're unsuccessful, you're dead."

 

"Well I haven't been unsuccessful yet."

 

"You just were. You are dead."

 

Mahanon sighed. That was true, it was likely only luck that had ensured he hadn't faced an opponent as skilled as Heir obviously was. "Where else can I strike that will take an enemy down quickly? I can't really strike their heart, the ribs are in the way."

 

Heir waved her hand, the dagger still in it, dismissively. "Forget the chest. Big target for big weapons. You get behind your enemy and your enemy is smaller than you, then maybe try for neck again. But smaller than you? Unlikely."

 

"Hey, you're smaller than I am," Mahanon pointed out.

 

"Yes," Heir replied. "And I did not go for your neck."

 

Mahanon smirked. "True. Where would you suggest then?"

 

"Against one such as us?" She walked fowards to Mahanon. "Here," she struck him lightly on the back over his right kidney with the flat of her dagger. "Here," she struck him over his left kidney. "Here and here," she tapped the inside of both thighs. "And here," she pointed her dagger perilously close to Mahanon's privates. He darted back away and saw her smile for the first time. "He learns fast!" she rejoiced.

 

Mahanon gave a short laugh at that. They spent several hours practicing striking those precise points and Heir did not let up until Mahanon could hit them every time. After that she bade him to abandon his daggers and work on striking bare fisted, hitting pressure points in similar areas with precision, and disarming her and using her weapons against her.

 

"Good," she eventually said as the sun was peaking over the mountains. "Tomorrow we work on fighting someone bigger and slower than you."

 

"Wait," Mahanon said. "I have an idea. Do you mind if someone bigger and slower than me joins in as a practice dummy? You're neither bigger nor slower for me to practice on."

 

"Someone you trust?" Mahanon gave a single sure nod. "Then yes. After dark in this room."

 

Mahanon grinned, already anticipating tonight.

 

*

 

He had taken another bath after Heir left to ease his sore muscles, though this time he kept one of his daggers within easy reach and did not allow himself to close his eyes. He had then taken a nap before returning to the paperwork that had been ignored while he was stuck in bed.

 

As evening approached, however, he dug through his clothes looking for something to wear and finally came up with a jacket that could hide any evidence of the wounds on his arm and side, and a scarf to wrap around his neck to hide the bruising and scratches there. The word was that he had been ill and if that were the case he would feel the cold and want to wear a scarf. Reluctantly he pulled on a pair of boots as well; it wouldn't do to wear a scarf 'because of the cold' but then be runnig around with bare feet.

 

Descending the stairs down to the great hall for the first time in days, Mahanon felt as though he were shedding a too tight skin. "Inquisitor! I wasn't expecting to see you up and about so soon." Mahanon turned to find Krem and Dalish standing either side of his door.

 

"Guards?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

 

"The Chargers decided you needed a little extra security, after..." he trailed off, glancing around. "We won't let anyone in who's not either your advisors or friends. Or no one if you or the Chief say so," he added with a wink.

 

Mahanon blushed a little but grinned as well. Bull had told him that he liked to know who his boys were sleeping with, of course it went both ways. "You know that Leliana probably has a few of her people scattered around the hall now as it is. She took the attack personally."

 

"Oh I don't doubt it," Krem said. "But the Chief didn't want us to be conspicuous if we wanted to do something-"

 

"Outwardly guarding a door is inconspicuous?" Mahanon cut in with a smile.

 

"Course it is! People come in, see guards, then ignore them. We hear lots of interesting bits of gossip. But more than that people see we're taking your safety and therefore their safety seriously."

 

"What about when the Chargers are needed for a job?" Mahanon asked; he liked sending the chargers on jobs even if Bull wasn't with them. They always got the task done as quickly and cleanly as possible.

 

"No need to worry. We've nominated some of the soldiers to act in our place. Reliable sorts, and your spymaster had them thoroughly investigated."

 

Mahanon nodded. "You've really thought this through."

 

"Course we have!" Krem said, a proud smile on his face. "How are you going, anyway? You're not really that cold are you?" he asked, his voice going quiet so as not to carry.

 

Mahanon reached up and pushed his scarf down a little, revealing the bruising there for just a second before he rose the scarf and hid it again. "I feel fine. Hurts to talk and swallow but nothing more than that. Just couldn't stand being stuck in that room any longer and, well, I have a proposition to make to Bull. He's in the tavern right?"

 

"Course," Krem said

 

"Oh, do tell!" that was from Dalish, the woman leaning forward to hear.

 

Mahanon only laughed and shook his head. "That would ruin the surprise. I'm sure you'll hear all about it from him. Later," he said stepping back a few steps and raising his hand in fairwell.

 

"You're a cruel, cruel man Lavellan!" he heard Krem shout after him which only made him chuckle more.

 

A few of the people who were gathered in the great hall saw him break away from conversation with Krem and greeted him, mostly the family of soldiers or servants who had signed up to the Inquisition. Mahanon tried to spend some time with them since he appreciated that they had to leave what was familiar so that they could be with their loved ones while they served in some form.

 

He made one more stop on the way out to speak to Varric and tell him about his discovery of his biggest fan. "Cassandra even read some of her favourite passages out to me. She thought I was asleep and I didn't have the heart to open my eyes and correct," Mahanon said with a grin.

 

"I am so so sorry for that," Varric said. "I promise you, I'll never write another one of that serial again. It was rubbish anyway and sold as worse than rubbish, not even enough to pay for the printing."

 

"Actually... I was hoping quite the opposite."

 

"You  _want_  me to write more of that trash? After what she inflicted you with?" Varric's voice was incredulous.

 

"It was actually kind of sweet. I haven't seen her get so passionate about something before. I think our illustrious Seeker is actually a romantic at heart."

 

"Well I'll be," Varric muttered.

 

"I've no illusions to the fact that she and Leliana saved my life the other day," Mahanon said quietly, "and as soon as I figure out some way to repay Leliana I plan to. But Cassandra unwittingly told me exactly how I can thank her when she said that the one she was reading, the latest one, ends on a cliff hanger. Do you think you could write the next one? In... a couple days?"

 

"Kid, do you realize how long it actually takes to write and publish a book?" Varric asked.

 

"Well... no. But if it's as trashy as you say," he didn't add that he found it worse than trashy when he read it - never insult an author you were asking to keep writing! "then it shouldn't take you too long to throw something together. As for publishing... well it would be kind of special if you gave her the first copy, before it's even been sent to print, don't you think?"

 

Varric hummed and Mahanon swore he could see the wheels turning in that dwarf's brain. He just hoped they were turning in ways that he could hash out a plot in a couple of days. "Alright, done. But only if I get to be there when you deliver it."

 

"Ah..." Mahanon hesitated; Varric's and Cassandra's relationship had remained strained since it was revealed that he had kept Hawke from her; he didn't want to make it worse by letting Cassandra know that Varric found out about her secret passion. "Oh fine then," he eventually gave in. A little embaressment on her part would be worth it and better than not having her embaressed and Varric never touching the series again. "Thank you!" he said with a bright grin.

 

"I better get to work then," Varric said, taking his leave.

 

Mahanon was then able to leave the great hall, still turning down several requests to share a meal with the people gathered there, Mahanon made his way down the grand staircase and over to the tavern. It was blissfully chaotic in here. Normally Mahanon much preferred the peace and queit but after being sequested in his room for what felt like years, the chaos was a blessing. He weaved his way through the jubilant and somewhat drunken crowds to Bull's usual spot, smiling when he saw him there.

 

"Boss!" he called out seeing him approach and moving along the bench so Mahanon had room to sit. He waved Cabot over to bring them all drinks. The remaining Chargers not guarding his door were here as well.

 

"You're not supposed to be out yet," Stitches dourly pointed out.

 

"I got sick of the weak piss soup you lot keep bringing me," Mahanon said.

 

"Hey, that soup is my mother's recipe!" Cabot growled as he set down the drinks rather forcefully in front of them all.

 

"And I bet you starved as a kid every time she served it too," Mahanon snipped back. He liked Cabot, and knew the dwarf could take as much as he gave.

 

"Damn straight," he said and Mahanon grinned. "I take it you'd like something a little more substantial this time?"

 

"Please," Mahanon said.

 

"Just no spiced nug. I've cleaned up after you enough," Bull chimed in.

 

"Got it. Watered down stew it is then," Cabot said. Mahanon sighed dramatically as the bartender left, weaving expertly through the crowds and shouting down as many people as he greeted.

 

"So what really brings you down here?" Bull asked.

 

"I told the truth. I'm hungry and didn't want to give anyone the chance to serve any more of that soup."

 

"Oh it's not that bad," Stitches said.

 

"Of course it's not. Every now and then. But day after day after day after day, breakfast lunch dinner, breakfast lunch dinner. Even someone as dull as Grim there would get sick of it," Mahanon said.

 

Grim, true to his name, grunted in agreement. Rocky laughed boisterously. "Give the lad a break," he said. "He needs something with  _meat_  in it if he's to regain his strength!"

 

"Exactly!" Mahanon rejoined.

 

He passed several enjoyable hours down there, though gradually Mahanon grew quieter as the talking and shouting began to take a toll on his still tender throat. Thankfully it wasn't as though the Chargers weren't willing to take up the slack and fill the evening with conversation. Just when he was trying to come up with ways to get Bull alone, Bull spoke up, saying, "Come on, Boss. I'll take you back to your room. I really don't need Red handing me my horns on a silver platter for keeping you out too late."

 

"But I'm not tired yet," Mahanon protested, though he smirked at the image Bull had just painted for him.

 

"Oh I have ways of making you tired," Bull said, to the whoops and hoots of those gathered around him.

 

Mahanon tried desperately to ignore the flush that spread over his cheeks. There was a difference, he decided, between knowing that the Chargers knew that he and Bull were fucking, and having it made obvious that they knew. Nonetheless, he stood but as he did so he said, "Bring your axe."

 

Bull frowned at that. "Expecting trouble? You know my boys will never let anyone up those stairs you don't want."

 

"I know that," Mahanon reassured him; truly there were few people he would trust more with his safety now. "But bring it anyway. I don't fear for my safety, but it could be fun if you bring it."

 

Bull's eye narrowed and even as he grabbed the axe by the haft and rested it across his shoulder he watched Mahanon suspiciously. "What're you planning?" he asked.

Mahanon simply grinned. "You'll see," he said before turning and leading the way out. They got a few strange looks entering the grand hall, or rather Bull did carrying his huge axe, but no one tried to stop them. Even Krem, seeing them, simply stood aside and, with a whoop, said, "Oh now you  _have_  to share how this one turns out!"

 

"I will," Mahanon promised. That, of course, only made Bull more suspicious; the elf was generally rather private and didn't like for what was private to become public knowledge. If he was promising to tell how it was going to turn out that meant it likely wasn't some kind of sex game Bull hadn't heard of (which would have been unlikely anyway since Bull had heard of  _all_  the sex games).

 

A gust of wind blew up the tower from a hole somewhere and Mahanon paused briefly to cough, his hand resting on the rail, but it didn't slow him down and as soon as it passed he continued on like nothing had happened. Climbing the final stairs to his room, Mahanon looked around. There was no sign of Heir but, of course, he knew that didn't mean anything.

 

He turned to smile at Bull who still looked lost at what was going on, and started to pull away the annoying scarf at his throat. "Alright, boss, what's going on now? There's no one here and-"

 

_Thwack thwack thwack!_

 

The shadow, for that was all it appeared to be, moved so fast Mahanon could barely keep up and he had been expecting it. Bull, to be fair, was fast for his size and his axe was already swinging to where Heir was by the time the third strike landed. Of course by the time the swing finished, Heir was well out of range, standing next to a grinning Inquisitor. It was likely only the fact that Mahanon did not seem worried or even alert by this turn of events that caused Bull not to react further.

 

"I see," he said instead. "This is your new trainer. And you want me to be your oponent. Is that right?"

 

"Yup!" Mahanon said rather proudly.

 

"And why couldn't you just say that in the first place? I thought I had found an elf kinkier than me."

 

"So do the Chargers. Which is half the fun. The other half is managing to do something the famous ben hassrath didn't predict."

 

"Hurmph," Bull grunted, though Mahanon didn't miss the look of admiration in his eye.

 

"This is him, yes?" Heir said. This time she approached him openly, the dagger she had used to strike him with the flat of the blade held down by her side. "He'll do. You won't face many qunari but he's big enough."

 

"Hear that, Bull? You'll do," Mahanon teased, thoroughly enjoying this at Bull's expense.

 

The qunari muttered to himself then brought his axe around in front of him in a ready stance. "Alright, what do you need me to do?"

 

There followed several more hours of training, not only going over what Mahanon had already learned, but altering them to find the correct points on a much larger person. Bull was a good sport for the most part, only complaining once about constantly being poked, how he would rather be solidly hit with a stick than put up with all these little bruises. Mahanon merely rose an eyebrow at him, reminding him in that one look of the 'little pains' Bull had inflicted on him recently. The big qunari became much more compliant after that. Mahanon thought it was likely that he didn't really mind in the first place, Leliana had said something along the lines of Bull approaching her wanting to make sure that it was assassin training he recieved ahead of any of the other specialities the trainers offered.

 

After Heir had left Mahanon sat on the couch while Bull dragged his chair over from the desk and sat on it backwards, resting his forearms across the back of it. "You're scarily good at that stuff, boss," Bull said.

 

Mahanon flashed a grin. "I enjoy it, surprisingly," he said. "I wasn't sure at first, killing and leaving waste should be avoided according to everything I've been taught. Even with the hunters in our clan, we usually prefer to avoid shem rather than confront them, or to resolve things peacefully if we can't avoid them. The assassin's skills are to kill on command."

 

"That's just what they're used for most often. No one's saying you should become an assassin for hire."

 

Mahanon nodded. "That's the realisation I came to. And the skills are useful, interesting." He gave a cheeky grin to Bull. "I can now completely stop you in your tracks with one finger. Or maybe a thumb with your muscles."

 

Bull gave a disgruntled hmph at that which only made Mahanon laugh.

 

Mahanon stood and wandered over to the open glass doors that led onto his balcony. He paused, glanced over his shoulder at Bull, then went outside to lean against the railing, looking out over the snowy mountains. Up here the sounds of Skyhold were muted, only the occassional shout or loud laugh drifting towards him. And then it started to snow. Mahanon lifted his face into it with a grin, enjoying the feeling of the soft stuff falling onto his cheeks. It was cold but he was starting to get used to the cold now and it didn't bother him as much as it used to.

 

"You seem quite relaxed for someone who was very nearly assassinated," Bull said from the doorway, watching him.

 

Mahanon looked over his shoulder with a smile. "Because I am relaxed," he said. "I trust the Chargers more than any other Inquisition soldiers, they're completely incorruptable, and right now there are two of them on guard by the door preventing anyone from entering. And at this very moment, you're with me so I won't be caught alone again, and if I am I won't be found unarme; there's a bare dagger under one of my pillows, and another down the back of the couch, one attached to the underside of the desk, and one in the bathroom. I survived, my throat is healing and security is stronger so I guess the attack was probably a good thing. And..." he hesitated here, but then decided to plunge on ahead. "You're free now, to truly be The Iron Bull."

 

A hint of a smile pulled at Bull's lips there and it made Mahanon glad he had said that. He got the feeling that as relaxed and easy going as Bull acted about the change in his life, he needed to be reminded that he hadn't failed in his decision. "I'm proud of you Bull," Mahanon said, remembering he had meant to say it earlier but had been distracted.

 

"Proud?"

 

Mahanon felt a tickle at the back of his throat and cleared it before speaking again. "Of course. You know, just because other qunari don't see you as following the qun, doesn't mean you can't follow it here. Don't go chaining up our mages of course, I don't think we could supress another rebellion. But if you need the qun to give you purpose, to work towards the greater whole, then just consider the Inquisition the greater whole you're working towards." Mahanon paused, then grunted to himself. "I'm sorry, that sounds like a lecture and that wasn't what I intended. I just wanted to reassure you, to-"

 

He broke off when Bull crossed the balcony in two steps and wrapped him in a rib cracking hug. Mahanon laughed at first, but then that laugh turned into a cough. Instantly he was let go, Bull's hands instead going to rest on Mahanon's shoulders. When the coughing didn't let up, Bull's grip tightened and directed Mahanon back inside. "In," he said needlessly. He directed Mahanon to sit on the bed while he went into the bathroom and started running hot water into his bath. That done he came back out only to lead Mahanon into the bathroom. With the door closed behind them the small room quickly filled with steam and, surprisingly, that seemed to ease the constant tickle and Mahanon's cough.

 

"You're acting like an over protective mother," Mahanon complained once he got his breath back as Bull came over and started to undress him. Mahanon knocked his hands aside and did the task himself.

 

"Wouldn't know," Bull pointed out. "Besides, I only act over protective when what I'm protecting needs it."

 

"Fine," Mahanon said once his shirt was off. "An over protective tamassran. It would be nice if I could meet the tamassran who raised you."

 

"She'd like you, probably. Tama liked the sharp tongued ones, even if they were the ones who got into trouble the most. Pants too."

 

Mahanon sighed dramatically and stood to pull his pants off as well. Frustratingly, the act still made Mahanon a little uncomfortable, which was ridiculous since Bull had seen him naked before and in much more compromising positions than just undressing for a bath.

 

"What about you?" Bull asked. "Dalish know their parents, don't they?"

 

"Most do," Mahanon said as he stepped out of his pants. Feeling the water in the bath and finding it hot but not painfully so, he stepped carefully in and sat down. "I don't really though. My mother was... sick I guess. Mentally. I was supposed to have a twin sister, but she was still born, only I survived. My mother was helped through the birth by our keeper but she didn't handle the loss of the baby very well. She was found about an hour away from camp where she had hung herself. I barely remember her. Her hair was the same colour as mine, brown, but long, and I remember the smell of it. There is a memory of her that... I'm not really sure it's a memory. She was holding me close and I could smell her hair in my face. It was comforting; she didn't hold me often. And she said that she was sorry but she couldn't take it any more. That I would be better off without her. If it's a real memory it would have been just before she left."

 

Bull was silent through this recounting, but he sat behind Mahanon and, soaping up his hands, started rubbing the elf's narrow shoulders. Mahanon sighed and relaxed into his touch. "I don't really remember much other than that. My father I have more memories of but he was a hard man, bitter and angry a lot. I don't know if it's because he blamed me for her death, or my sister's or if he was always like that. He died protecting the clan from shem raiders when I was eleven. After that the clan raised me. They mostly had already anyway."

 

"Do you miss them? Your parents?"

 

Mahanon shook his head. "Not really. Even when my father was alive he didn't really have a lot to do with me beyond the acknowledgement that he was my father. Children of our clan beyond a certain age were raised by all the adults. Keeper Deshana is actually my... great aunt I think. She helped raise me when my mother died, helped me understand what had happened. Then Mera was our clan's story teller, all children learn from her, and around the same time we try all different skills to try to find what we're best at and what we enjoy. We try to give people the tasks they enjoy most and help them develop those skills. Except mages but our clan never had many mages."

 

"What happens with the mages?"

 

Mahanon frowned and glanced over his shoulder at Bull. "You know all this already, don't you? Ben hassrath and all that."

 

Bull smiled and said, "Some yes, but I like hearing you talk about it and hearing your perspective."

 

Mahanon shrugged one shoulder and settled back against the side of the tub. "As I said, we never had many mages. The last keeper, I don't remember his name, he only had Keeper Deshana as an apprentice, as his First. He died when I was still really young and Keeper Deshana took that role. Faerel was the next one to develop magic, so he became the First and then a year or so later Kiarra did so she became Second. No other children developed magic."

 

"No others got the chance though, did they?"

 

Mahanon glanced over at him. "So you did read that letter. I thought you might have but I couldn't remember if I dreamt the whole thing," his voice was quiet. Of course this was all leading somewhere.

 

"I did. Are you mad?" Bull asked and, Mahanon thought he actually sounded concerned about what Mahanon might think. It was because of that that Mahanon actually paused to think about it. Was he mad? He had told him to read it after all, even if he had been drunk at the time.

 

Eventually, he shook his head. "No," he said. "So long as you don't tell anyone else. It's... actually kind of a relief not to have to hide it from you. I haven't heard anything further since that letter but it's not really that surprising; it takes so long to travel there and even I don't know exactly where they are at the moment." He sighed. "I had hoped that it was just the old and young that would fall victim. Well, of course, I hoped no one would, but when that was what we were faced with I had hoped it was ended. I was carring for the last of our children when she died. After that, Keeper sent me and Kiarra to the conclave, to seek a cure from the Chantry or other shem healers who might know more."

Bull grunted. "Do you think they might accept Dalish to help? I doubt she would want to stay long but she would help if I asked her."

 

Mahanon smiled and shook his head. "They would accept it probably, and having no more mages they would accept her into the clan if she wished it. But I would not ask that; we don't know how the illness spreads, it would be puting her at risk. Her and all the Chargers and we didn't sacrifice an alliance with the qunari just to get the Chargers killed by some illness."

 

"What are the symptoms of the illness? I may not be ben hassrath any more but I still have some contacts I could follow up with."

 

"Um..." Mahanon thought back trying to remember how it had all started. "It starts off just like a winter cough, the kind that most people get that time of year. A tickling throat, weakness. The cough develops then and gets worse and the person gets light headed easily. Then the coughing turns into fits that has them coughing up phlem first, then blood. After that, the coughing gets worse, it gets hard to breathe and the person feels even more weak. And then... they essentially drown in their own blood. It's... not pleasant to watch the children die of something you can't stop. Kiarra and Keeper Deshana tried all kinds of magic and potions and everything they knew of but nothing worked for long." He gave a shrug and allowed himself to sink deeper into the water so that it was lapping about his chin. "If I don't find something soon..."

 

"Dip your head back," Bull instructed. Mahanon did so, allowing Bull to wash his hair for him, closing his eyes and relaxing into the touch. Once, that time when Faerel had heated the pond and they had swum together, he had allowed another to wash him like this but he had not done so since. It was nice. "We'll find something, boss. Don't you worry about that." Bull's voice was quiet and soothing and it put Mahanon at ease despite the uncomfortable topic they were talking about.

 

The bath wasn't big enough, Mahanon thought to himself. Oh it was plenty big enough for him, but it would have been nice if Bull could have fit to join him. Was it being greedy to want to change his already perfect chambers to fit a bigger one in? Would Josephine think less of him for that?

 

And then Mahanon's mind remembered what he had actually wanted to tell Bull. "Oh yeah, Bull. I need you to be ready to travel in a few days."

 

"Hmm? Where to? I didn't think Cullen would be ready for us for a week or so yet."

 

"Not for Cullen. For a bit of fun first. We're going to the Hinterlands, but I'm not telling why yet."

 

"All mysterious huh? I bet I could get it out of you," Bull said, his voice low, teasing.

 

Mahanon laughed and pushed himself away from the side of the tub Bull was at to sit against the other side. "I'm sure you could," he said. "But wouldn't it be more fun to wait and see?"

 

"Depends on your definition of fun. Sex can be  _very_ fun."

 

Mahanon couldn't deny that, but he still persisted. "This will be better if you don't know, trust me. I just need a few more days to practice with Heir, and Varric is doing me a favour first, but then we can go."

 

"Very well. Now, however, since I've made you unhappy talking about your clan, I need to make you happy again. Come here," Bull ordered, in  _that_  voice. Grinning, Mahanon hurried to obey.

 


	17. Cassandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon plans some fun and Cassandra gets disappointed.

Cassandra's reaction to receiving the new book had been everything Mahanon could have ever hoped for. She had been embarrassed to have her enthusiasm found out by Varric, and angry with Mahanon at first for revealing it to him, but she quickly changed her tone when Varric practically waved the book in her face and threatened her with spoilers. She didn't even seem to mind that it was clearly a bound manuscript rather than a printed book since it meant that she got to read it before anyone else. Privately, Mahanon thought even if she had waited a few months after the book was officially published she would read it before anyone else but he kept that opinion to himself.

 

"Get ready to head out tomorrow, Cassandra. We're going to the Hinterlands," he said, a smile at her excitement still playing about his lips.

 

That seemed to surprise her somewhat. "The Hinterlands? Why? And with Adamant looming so soon?"

 

"I want to have some fun before we leave for what's bound to be a nasty siege. And the Hinterlands are the closest place to do what I want and get back in time to leave again."

 

"You're not going to tell me what we're doing there, are you."

 

"Nope!" Mahanon said with a huge grin. This was too much fun!

 

Cassandra gave one of her melodramatic sighs. "Very well," she said. Inevitably her eyes were drawn back to the book in her hand. "Do you think... I could bring this with me?" she asked quietly, her cheeks turning pink.

 

"I don't see why not," Mahanon replied laughing.

 

"Oh! Did you finish the book I lent you? Would you like the next one?"

 

"Ah, no that's all right Cassandra," he said hastily. "I'm not really good at reading and only really wanted to try it while I was cooped up in my room."

 

"All right..." Cassandra said, already distracted as she almost reverently opened the cover.

 

Mahanon just chuckled to himself and took his leave to tell Sera to get ready to leave in the morning as well.

 

*

 

Mahanon had ordered fire resistant armour made for the four of them and gifted it, sure that doing so would give away the game, but if anyone guessed it, no one said anything. Sera was the only one who accepted that it was a surprise without question. In fact she had spent the whole journey guessing what it could be and her guesses ranged from a fancy dress party to an orgy in the moonlight. That one had made Cassandra blush and Mahanon wondered if it had featured in her book.

 

They stopped at the Crossroads to resupply and Mahanon stocked up on healing potions and a new healing bomb one of the alchemists at Skyhold had taught him. That done, they moved on north to an area they hadn't travelled much yet. There was a reason for that: rumour had it that a large fire dragon lived in the area and Mahanon had always had more pressing things to do than go looking for it. Now though...

 

"Oh, would you look at that! Isn't she a beauty!" Bull exclaimed as they crested a rise and caught sight of the massive dragon below. The dragon seemed to catch sight, or perhaps scent, of them at the same time and took to the wing.

 

"Hwoah! Big, eh?" Sera said.

 

"Are we... hunting that?" Cassandra asked as she drew her sword and moved forward a few steps.

 

"Told you it would be worth the surprise," Mahanon said, grinning from long ear to long ear, pleased as he could be at their reaction.

 

Running forwards they made short work of the drakes that scattered the area, attempting to chase down the dragon. They were forced to dodge the fireballs it spat at them, as well as deal with the drakes that seemed to spring out of no where, but they kept moving, eventually cornering the dragon in what looked like an abandoned mine.

 

"You're the best boss ever!" Bull shouted as he charged the great beast, causing Mahanon to laugh as he followed behind. The absolute jubilation in the qunari made it worth it, he decided. And Mahanon also welcomed the chance to practice what Heir had taught him.

 

The dragon was tough and, as Sera had so eloquently put it, _big_. Mahanon mostly focused on the creature's legs, trying to disable it and halt its movement as much as possible and Cassandra used her higher defence and shield to take it head on, and Bull... Bull went where he chose with absolutely no thought to strategy or teamwork or anything as he laid his axe left and right, laughing and shouting and grinning like an over excited child. When it took to the wing to shoot fireballs at them from a distance, the three of them scattered and took down whatever drakes were around and interfering while Sera continued to pelt the dragon with arrows.

 

There were a few close calls, Mahanon's hair was noticeably singed, Sera's fire resistant armour was getting a work out, and the tips of Bull's horns had even been smoking once (Mahanon had laughed so hard at that one that he nearly got hit with a fireball himself).

 

Just as the dragon was starting to slow down it took to the wing again and landed on top of what seemed to Mahanon to be a small mountain. There was a path and all of them ran towards it, Cassandra leading the way with her shield out front, blocking what the dragon threw at them. Reaching the top of the hill, Cassandra lowered her shield when the fire stopped to get her bearings and the dragon took advantage of it, rearing up and knocking her bodily aside with her claws. Cassandra fell with a cry and tumbled down the side of the small mountain.

 

"Cassandra!" Mahanon shouted. He turned to run down the hill but Sera was behind him and there was no room for him to get past.

 

"Check later. Fight now, yeah?" Sera said, then, her eyes widening as she looked past him, she grabbed his arm and pulled him down, the pair of them narrowly missing another fireball.

 

"Thanks," Mahanon said. He turned and followed Sera's advice. Bull hadn't even seemed to notice that Cassandra had fallen, he was too busy taunting and laughing at the dragon. And shouting something. Mahanon was rolling away from a claw when he caught it.

 

"Taarsidath-an halsaam! The boss too!"

 

Mahanon had no idea what the big qunari was shouting about or why it would involve him, but he didn't really have the time to ask. Dodging and weaving around the dragon's attacks, Mahanon's strikes were quick and precise. The blades sank into the dragon's most sensitive areas and added to the likely hundreds of wounds already inflicted. It was slowing down now.

 

"She's mine!" Bull shouted and he leapt up onto the back of the dragon with a lot more agility than Mahanon would have given him credit for, running up its back along the spine and, with an almighty crash, slamming the blade of his axe into the back of its neck. It gave a roar and rose slightly, but Bull merely rode it out and then repeated the gesture, this time downing it for good.

 

A glance at Bull showed only a few minor scrapes and singes that Mahanon could see and Sera was much the same. That was good. Mahanon left Bull standing over his prize, fists on his hips, said hips thrust forward slightly standing in a position of power over the defeated dragon. Sera also seemed mesmerised by it so Mahanon left them to it, jogging down the trail to where he had seen Cassandra fall. Reaching the bottom, Mahanon gave a soft sigh of relief when he saw her climbing to her hands and knees before sitting back on her feet. The dragon's claws had ripped her breastplate from her and left deep gashes that were bleeding freely and her tumble down the cliff face had caused a number of other scrapes. As Mahanon approached she clutched at the wounds on her chest and bent over, clearly struggling with the pain.

 

"Here," Mahanon said, resting a hand on her shoulder and handing over a healing potion.

 

Leaving her to down it, he stepped away for a bit to shout, "Bull! Sera!" When the two of them poked their head down at them he said, "Leave that dragon alone for now, it's not going anywhere, and go make camp." He looked around briefly before pointing to the north west. "Over there, towards the ocean."

 

Bull gave him a salute with his bloody axe while Sera stuck her tongue out at him, which Mahanon took for acceptance since the both of them moved to do as he asked. Mahanon meanwhile returned to Cassandra.

 

"Has that helped?" he asked, kneeling down next to her.

 

"Somewhat," she got out, though Mahanon could tell by the tightness of her voice that she was still in a lot of pain. He only had two potions left, but he gave her another one. He would save the final one for tonight so that hopefully she could sleep with minimal pain.

 

He waited until she had drank it before asking, "Can you stand?"

 

Cassandra gave a short nod and Mahanon slipped an arm around her waist and took her arm on her least injured side to drape it over his shoulders to help her. She was surprisingly heavy for a woman, he thought. Must be all that muscle; there was certainly no fat on her body. Nonetheless, with his help the two of them made their slow way to the camp that Bull and Sera were setting up. As luck would have it there was a small cave, more of a hollow in the rocky cliff face. Bull and Sera had set up camp there. Seeing the dragon they had dumped their supplies but Bull and Sera had fetched them and brought them here. A canvas windbreak was set up between the cave entrance and the ocean which made the area rather comfortable. Well, more comfortable than camping amongst drake corpses anyway.

 

Helping Cassandra to sit down, he heard Sera give a snort from behind him. "Seeker, your tits won't seek anything hanging out like that in this company."

 

It was then that both Mahanon and Cassandra realized that, yes, her breasts were showing, the dragon's claws had torn through her breast band as well as her shirt. The Seeker turned a bright red while Mahanon looked over to glare at Sera. "Not now Sera," he said. "Why don't you go kill us some dinner or something, hmm?"

 

"Fine, fine," Sera said before traipsing off.

 

Mahanon glanced over at Bull who was standing with his back to them but he highly suspected the trembling in the big qunari's muscles was actually suppressed laughter. Mahanon sighed and ignored him; he was tempted to send him away as well so that Cassandra wouldn't feel quite so uncomfortable but it would be useful to keep a look out since there were sure to still be drakes around.

 

Turning back to Cassandra, he saw that she had pulled the ragged ends of her shirt together to hide herself, her face still bright red as she refused to look at him. "I know this is awkward," Mahanon said slowly, "but you probably should let me tend to those wounds. I've been learning a thing or two from the surgeon at Skyhold so I should be able to help. If you'd prefer a woman, I can wait until Sera gets back but..." Mahanon trailed off, not entirely sure how he could say that he highly doubted Sera knew anything about fixing holes since she was far too fond of making them.

 

Cassandra didn't say anything, nor did she turn to look at him, but she did reluctantly remove her hands and let her torn shirt hang open again. Mahanon used a cloth and wet it from their water skins to gently wipe away the blood and dirt from the wounds. They were nasty and would undoubtedly leave some scars, but they weren't as deep as he had feared; they just bled a lot. Carefully and as gently as he could, he cleaned them and picked out any stones or dirt he found, then dug through his pack and pulled out two jars.

 

"Um... would you mind laying down? This is easier to apply if you're laying down," he said. Cassandra complied and rose an arm to cover her eyes, her face was still pink but Mahanon was trying his best to be impersonal about the whole thing to stop it from being worse. Opening the first jar, the smell that hit his nose brought back strong memories. "This will burn for a bit, but it should help after that eases," he warned before spreading the cream on Cassandra's chest, next to the gashes but not in them.

 

Cassandra gasped as she felt it starting to burn, then asked without raising her arm from her face, "What is it?"

 

"My Keeper sent it to me with her last letter," Mahanon said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bull turn slightly towards him hearing that, but Mahanon ignored him. "It's something a good friend of mine created for us hunters when he was alive. It eases tension in muscles and soothes aches and pains. I thought it might help ease the muscles surrounding your injuries."

 

"What's it called?" Cassandra asked, her voice a little easier now that the burning would have passed.

 

Mahanon hesitated at that question, unsure how to answer. "It... doesn't really have a name, as such," he said. "We just called it Faerel's cream since he was the one who made it and taught us how to make it."

 

"Faerel was the one you were calling for after Haven."

 

"Yes," Mahanon said shortly. He put the lid on the cream and put it aside, wiping his fingers on his pants then opening the other one. "This one will probably hurt, but it will help hold the wounds closed. I know it has elfbark in it but I don't really know anything else. I don't trust myself to do stitches but this should keep them closed till tomorrow when we can return to the Crossroads," he said. He felt better explaining what he was doing, more like a healer would and less like he was being a creep. Cassandra didn't really interest him in that way, no women ever had, but Cassandra didn't know that and truthfully it wasn't something that Mahanon usually blasted about. Best to try and allow her to be as comfortable as possible.

 

Cassandra didn't make a sound as Mahanon spread the gel stuff on her wounds, pulling them closed and holding them that way until it dried as he did so. "I've just got to get some bandages then we're done," he said. Mahanon didn't have any bandages in his pack but he knew Bull had some so he helped himself to digging through it looking for them. Seeing something black and leather, he paused and started to pull it out to see what it was, only to drop it as though it had burned him. "Bull! Did you really have to bring... that?" Mahanon whined.

 

Bull glanced over at him and, even though Mahanon had dropped the leather bound paddle, the look on his face told Bull exactly what it was he was referring to. "What?" he said, defensively. "I thought we might have some down time."

 

Mahanon's exasperated groan would have put Cassandra to shame at that. He supposed it was really his own fault for not telling Bull what they were doing and he _had_ said that he wanted them to relax before Adamant. Cassandra, meanwhile, was glancing between Mahanon and Bull with a confused look, as though she couldn't quite figure something out. Mahanon knew he hadn't taken the paddle out far enough for her to see but he still felt uncomfortable with the scrutiny he was under. Nonetheless, it seemed to have distracted her from her earlier embarrassment so that was something at least. Bringing the bandages over, he helped fasten them and then get her settled so she could rest against the cave wall, a blanket and pack supporting her back and keeping the chill from it and book in her lap while they waited for Sera to return.

 

*

 

Their return to Skyhold was a fairly muted affair. It wasn't an official Inquisition mission so not many people were even aware that the Inquisitor had been out. Of course, the dragon head that Bull insisted on taking with them attracted a lot more attention than their actual return did and Bull had declared that it would be proudly displayed in the Great Hall for all to see as soon as it was treated so as not to decompose. Mahanon wasn't exactly thrilled with that idea, but he let the Qunari have his fun.

 

Mahanon was heading up to see Josephine and Leliana, to find out what he had missed in his absence when Bull called out over the crowd, "Boss! Tavern tonight! Drinks on me to celebrate!"

 

Mahanon smiled and rose a hand in acknowledgement before continuing on his way.

 

*

 

That evening as Mahanon was heading to the tavern to meet with Bull, he was waylaid by Cassandra. Seeing her, he smiled and asked, "How are you feeling? Not too sore I hope. Truly, I meant for the dragon hunt to be some fun, and the book as a thank you, for saving my life from the ben hassrath," he said.

 

"I'm fine, it's just..." Cassandra trailed off and looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "There is a... rumour being circulated. I find it hard to credit, but it suggests that you and Bull are..."

 

Mahanon tilted his head to the side curiously. Just what was this rumour? he wondered. His life as the Inquisitor meant that generally he had little privacy but he thought the two of them had been at least somewhat discrete in what their bedroom play entailed. "Are what?" he asked.

 

Cassandra sighed, obviously not happy with having to spell it out. "Romantically involved."

 

"Oh," Mahanon said. Was that all? "Yes, I suppose that's true," he said. With the Chargers mocking the two of them and how Bull always accompanied him when he left Skyhold, Mahanon just figured everyone had worked that part out by now.

 

"Ah," Cassandra said. "I must admit I am a little surprised."

 

"You are? I don't see why, it's not exactly a secret," Mahanon said.

 

"True enough. It is your business, and I will leave it at that."

 

"Oh-kay," Mahanon said. Smiling a little awkwardly, he said, "Well, take it easy. I'll see you around," before taking his leave.

 

He had only gone a few meters before Cole manifested in front of him. Mahanon gasped and thumped a hand to his chest as his heart raced. "Cole! I wish you wouldn't do that," he said. "Where have you been anyway? Haven't seen you around for a while."

 

"Helping. You just weren't looking."

 

"True enough I suppose."

 

"You hurt her."

 

"What? Cassandra?" Mahanon asked. He turned slightly to look back to where he had left Cassandra but she was gone. "What do you mean?"

 

"She had put you in one of her books. You and her. It made a nice story but you ruined it."

 

"What?" Suddenly it all clicked into place, the way she had cradled his head while he fought for breath after the assassination attempt, her reaction to the book, the way she tried to protect him over all the others when they fought, how embarrassed she had gotten when Mahanon had to tend to her injuries, even Sera's comment which he had thought was just Sera being rude. And, with that in mind, he then also saw how his own actions had fuelled that belief.

 

"Oh Dread Wolf," Mahanon groaned and ran a hand through his hair. That wasn't what he had intended at all! He liked Cassandra, she was a friend and he respected her skills, but that was all it could ever have been. "Cole, I-" he cut himself off. Cole was gone again. "I need a drink," he decided, going into the tavern.

 

No sooner had he entered than Bull called out over the crowd. "Inquisitor! Come have a drink!"

 

Mahanon smiled wearily, allowing himself to forget about how badly he had messed up with Cassandra, at least for a little while, and sat next to Bull. A qunari sized tankard was passed his way.

 

"To killing a high dragon like warriors of legend!" Bull declared.

 

Smirking, Mahanon took a swig of the drink. And instantly regretted it. It burned all the way down and made him cough and splutter. Bull just laughed at him. "I know right? Put some chest on your chest."

 

"You don't need any more chest," Mahanon teased. "What is it Krem calls em? Pillowy man-boosoms?" He laughed.

 

Bull ignored him, too caught up in his memories of the dragon fight. "That little gurgle right before it spat fire? And that roar! What I wouldn't give to roar like that."

 

"I'm sure I could get you to," Mahanon teased.

 

"The way the ground shook when it landed." Ignored again. Mahanon sighed. He caught sight of Krem across the room and rolled his eyes at him. Krem just rose his own tankard over his face, hiding his grin as Bull continued. 

 

"The smell of the fires burning... Taarsidath-an halsaam. You know, qunari hold dragons sacred. Well, as much as we hold anything sacred."

 

"Oh, acknowledgement now," Mahanon teased as Bull filled up his drink again. "That thing you just said," Mahanon said now that he had his attention. "You shouted it during the fight too, and something about me. What does it mean?"

 

"Oh, taarsidath-an halsaam? Closest translation would be, 'I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.'"

 

Mahanon coughed, choking on his drink at that, Bull thumping him several times on the back in a completely unhelpful way. "You shouted that while it was breathing fire at us? And then brought me into it?"

 

"I know, right?" Bull said, mighty proud of himself, and he gave Mahanon a suggestive nudge.

 

Mahanon just shook his head in exasperation. Truly, he was incorrigible. Instead of commenting he just took another drink. _Why?_ Mahanon thought to himself as he coughed and spluttered. Was his memory so short?

 

"Yeah! The second cup's easier. Most of the nerves in your throat are dead after the first one."

 

"Good to know," Mahanon wheezed.

 

"Ataashi. 'The glorious ones.' That's our word for them. Ataaaaasheeeee."

 

"Qunari hold dragons sacred?" Mahanon asked surprised. He felt as though he may have done something that could cause offense now. Only, Bull wasn't acting offended. "Why?" he asked.

 

"Well, you know how we have horns? We kind of look more... dragony... than most people. Maybe it's that." Mahanon's eyes narrowed a little. Bull was starting to slur! "But," Bull continued, "a few of the ben hassrath have this crazy old theory. See, the tamassrans control who we mate with. They breed us for jobs like you'd breed dogs or horses. What if they mixed in some dragon a long time ago? I don't know, but something in that dragon we killed..." Bull sighed as though trying to find the right words. "Spoke to me," he settled on.

 

"So... taking you dragon hunting wasn't a good idea after all?"

 

"Na, it was great! Dragons are the embodiment of raw power. But it's all uncontrolled, savage. So they need to be destroyed. Taming the wild. Order out of chaos. Have another drink."

 

"Destroyed? I hope you don't intend to destroy me if it was my savage elfy-ness that drew you."

 

"Na. Tamed perhaps."

 

Mahanon laughed and took another swig. Bull was right, it was getting easier. "Hey," he said. "If the tamassrans control who you mate with, but you have sex whenever you want, what do you do for relationships?"

 

"We don't have relationships," he said. "Or sex for love. Sex is just a way to pop your cork, to let loose and have fun."

 

"Oh," Mahanon said, staring at the table. That was... incredibly sad. And he couldn't help but wonder if that was all was between them. He didn't think so. He didn't know what to call it, not yet, but it was more than just fun.

 

"But for someone we really care about, there is an old tradition," Bull continued.

 

"Oh?" Mahanon asked, perking up a little at that.

 

"You find a dragon's tooth, break it in half, and you each wear a piece. Then, no matter how far apart life takes you, you're always together."

 

Mahanon had a stupid grin on his face. "That's really sweet. Sickly sweet almost," he said. "Gimme another drink!"

 

Bull laughed and obliged, refilling his massive tankard. "To dragons!" he declared.

 

"To The Iron Bull!" Mahanon countered.

 

"And his arse kicking Inquisitor!"

 

"I'll drink to that!" And they did.

 

"Hey, hey, kadan, listen." Kadan was a new word, Mahanon realized, but Bull kept talking and he forgot to ask. "I always want to say this, and I never can when we're off saving the world. You've got a fantastic arse!"

 

"Nawww," Mahanon said, leaning his head against Bull's arm. And not because he couldn't hold it up any more.


	18. Adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition sieges the Grey Warden fortress of Adamant.

Mahanon instinctively ducked as a huge boulder went flying overhead, his heart pounding in his chest. This was way more intense than he had ever imagined and really put their battles thus far to shame. They had arrived at the Inquisition camp just two days before where Mahanon and all the others had been briefed on what was going on. This being such a full scale attack, Mahanon had decided that there should only remain a skeleton force at Skyhold, led by Cassandra since she was still recovering from her wounds. That and Mahanon thought that it might be best if some distance were placed between the two of them after her recent misunderstanding. She was also the one he trusted most to be able to make use of Skyhold's defenses should the need arise. He also ordered Dorian to remain behind. He still didn't trust the vint and would much rather not be worrying about how he would turn on them while they were busy fighting wardens and demons. In truth he would have sent him away already if only he had not made himself so useful to the scribes and librarians in Skyhold. So now he ignored him and excluded him wherever possible. Of the others he had formed small teams and spread them around the fortress to lead the Inquisition soldiers on those fronts.

 

Because he thought it would be fun, Mahanon had asked Sera to name the teams. She didn't disappoint. "We're the Horny Wardens!" she declared happily, instantly naming Mahanon's team which consisted of himself, Bull, Blackwall, and Sera. Bull roared with laughter at that and even the normally stoic Blackwall was struggling not to smile.

 

"What about you and the Inquisitor?" Blackwall asked. "You don't have horns and you're not a warden."

 

"Sure but I can get horns," she said. She grabbed two of her arrows and a spare bow string and tied the arrows to either side of her head in a parody of horns. When she let go they flopped comically and threatened to fall. "And he's horny. Just ask Bull," she added, nodding her head (and horns, nearly dislodging one of them) to Mahanon. That only made Bull laugh even more, especially since it made Mahanon blush.

 

Solas and Cole led three other Inquisition soldiers and were named "Weirdy wobblies."

 

"But I'm not wobbly. At least I don't think I am," Cole said. There was a pause, then he said, distressed, "I don't understand what that is or why he's doing it to her!"

 

Sera didn't answer but by the snort she gave, Mahanon could guess.

 

Vivienne and Varric led another three Inquisition soldiers. "Prissy peacocks!" Sera delightfully declared. "Pea _cocks_! Gettit?" She snorted with laughter.

 

"I will _not_ be called a prissy peacock," Vivienne declared haughtily.

 

"Oh relax," Mahanon said grinning. "It could easily be worse."

 

"How, my dear?"

 

"Well, it could be the Prissy Pricks or something," he said.

 

"Ooh! I like that better! Yeah we're going with that one! Prissy pricks!" Sera said.

 

Mahanon struggled not to laugh at what he had wrought. Or at least, not laugh too hard.

 

The Chargers were another group and, while Sera had named them Wannabe Horny they were still generally referred to as the Chargers.

 

For now, while the siege equipment went to work on the walls, Mahanon held back out of firing range, waiting for the walls to come down so they could attack. Ladders were being raised against the walls still standing and, though Mahanon hated seeing the soldiers knocked from there and longed to help them, Cullen had convinced him to hang back and wait; assaulting the walls in such a manner was by far the most dangerous and he wouldn't risk their Inquisitor in such a role. Better, he said, should the Inquisitor be the one to charge into the breach made in the walls to assist where needed.

 

"I hate this," Mahanon said. "With every warden we kill we are lowering our chances of surviving another blight."

 

"If we do not do this we won't be around to worry about another blight," Cullen pointed out.

 

Mahanon knew that, it had been said several times, as had his point. But that didn't stop him from hating it.

 

Seeing the battering ram begin to approach the huge gates of Adamant fortress, Mahanon took up the huge shield that would protect him and said, "Right. Let's go."

 

He took two steps before Cullen called, "Inquisitor." Mahanon turned. "Good luck and be safe. I'll see you in the fray."

 

Mahanon nodded and turned back. With the huge shield held angled up as Cullen had taught him he was able to protect most of his body from arrows and rocks that the defenders threw at him. Though, with the shield covering him it also meant he was just another soldier, he wasn't singled out as someone that would be worthwhile targeting specifically. It was heavy though and his arm quickly grew tired even without deflecting the rocks away. They hung back briefly, waiting for the battering ram to do its work and, once the gates were broken through and a cheer went up, Mahanon charged forward with the rest of the soldiers, throwing the shield aside once he was through.

 

There was fighting all around him, screams and shouts, the sound of swords on shields and armour, a crazy cacophony. Once he was through the gate, Mahanon drew his daggers and charged in. He allowed Bull and Blackwall to charge the grey wardens who persisted in attacking them while he and Sera picked off the demons, Sera with her range and Mahanon utilizing all of his speed to dart from one target to the next, each strike precise and deadly.

 

"Inquisitor!"

 

Mahanon spun around to see Cullen on the battlements above him. "There's too much resistance up here. Lend a hand to our soldiers and -" he broke off to bodily toss a soldier who tried attacking off the battlements, the warden landing with a sickening crunch on the stone below. "And we can cover your advance!" Cullen continued.

 

Mahanon gave a salute with one of his daggers to show that he heard before moving to do just that. There were demons everywhere and, while the soldiers showed signs of tiring, the demons did not and, worse, when a warden mage grew tired they turned even more to blood magic, turning themselves into abmoniations which meant yet more demons to fight.

 

"Upwards, upwards, always upwards. If Cole could get the joke he would be laughing right about now," Mahanon muttered to himself as he dispelled another demon. Where they could they tried to get the warden warriors to stand down, to support them instead of becoming victims to the mages' blood magic. Most were too convinced that what they were doing was right to pay them any heed, but they managed to get a few to join them.

 

"Inquisitor!" Mahanon spun around to the voice, a boy, no more than a child really, wearing Inquisition livery and the badge of a messenger. Mahanon gritted his teeth and resolved to have a long hard talk with Cullen about his choice of messengers. "The... the wierdy wobblies? They're overwhelmed, they're falling back."

 

Mahanon gave a sharp nod and turned to the warden soldiers who were following. "Get to the west wall and help our soldiers there. There is an elven mage there and... a boy with daggers, though you may not see him. Show them that you are helping them and they will not harm you, they will help you in return," he said. The wardens saluted him and hurried off. Mahanon smiled grimly to himself seeing how they simply ran past their fellows, the other wardens assuming they were still on their own side.

 

That sorted, they continued on their way. Hands and arms slick with blood to the elbow, muscles aching and a dozen small wounds stinging, they finally managed to clear the battlements enough for Inquisition soldiers to get a foothold. Which only left the inner courtyard to take.

 

Pushing open the doors, Mahanon's eyes quickly took in the scene before him. Wardens gathered, mages beside soldiers, demons standing on the outskirts. And above them all the woman who could only be Clarel. Along with that Magister. As Mahanon watched he saw her sacrifice a dalish woman and felt the anger bubble up inside him.

 

"Clarel!" he shouted, striding forward, heedless of the blades pointed in his direction. "Stop this madness at once! You're only doing what Erimond, what Corypheus wants!"

 

"What, fighting the blight? Keeping the world safe from darkspawn? Who wouldn't want that?" Erimond rejoined, his tone that of a skilled orator. "And yes, the ritual requires blood sacirfice. Hate me for that if you must, but do not hate the wardens for doing their duty!"

 

"We make the sacrifices no one else will. Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them," Clarel added.

 

"I don't care about the blood magic! For what it's worth, if this would actually work I would support you and honour your sacrifices. But this is not the case!" Mahanon shouted. "I care that the mages have no free will of their own, that you're all being manipulated, bluffed into thinking that this calling is real!"

 

"Corypheus? But he's dead," Clarel said. Mahanon could see that this surprised her, that she was unknowing of his manipulations. That was good at least.

 

"These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarel," Erimond said. His voice was quiet, meant for Clarel, but Mahanon heard it.

 

"Oh yes," he muttered. "Believe the Vint but not the people responsible for closing the breach."

 

Clarel seemed to harden with Erimond's words before commanding, "Let it through."

 

Mahanon closed his eyes briefly in exasperation, his blood-slick fists clenching the hilts of his daggers.

 

"Please, I have seen more than my share of blood magic! It is never worth the cost!" Hawke shouted, desperate Mahanon thought. He didn't necessarily agree with him but now wasn't the time to get into a philosophical debate.

 

"We don't have time for this!" Mahanon shouted. "Attack!"

 

No sooner had the order been given than Erimond summoned that dragon that had attacked Haven. Mahanon recognised its cry, had been hearing it in his nightmares since that fateful night. The beat of its wings was the only warning it gave before it swooped on them, red lyrium spurting from its jaws as Mahanon leapt away, rolling and coming to his feet once more.

 

"This beastie again? I'll fill it full of arrows, see how well it flies then!" Sera shouted, aiming her bow to do just that.

 

"You keep it distracted, I'm going after the Vint!" Mahanon shouted. He began running towards the stairs that would lead up to the dais where Erimond and Clarel were standing watching. Just as he reached the top of the stairs he saw Clarel summon her magic. He made to attack her first but froze when instead of attacking him, she turned on Erimond.

 

Her attack, however, only drew the attention of the dragon. "Move!" Mahanon shouted as he heard that distinct sound that gave hint of a lyrium attack about to be launched at them. Erimond used the opportunity to run.

 

"Boss! A little help here!"

 

Mahanon glanced over at the fight raging below them and cursed. "Get after him, don't let him escape!" he shouted at Clarel before leaping over the railing and landing in the midst of the fight. He had no idea whether Clarel would actually head his orders, but he didn't have time to ponder it or even to pause and see what she did. Mahanon darted around the battlefield, his daggers killing where he was needed most and providing some much needed support to his men. This was the kind of fighting he had grown used to, none of that boulders flying and walls smashing business.

 

Once he took some of the heat off his allies they were able to push back and send the demons back to the fade. Mahanon handed Blackwall a healing potion, the man giving him a nod in thanks and downing it. He had taken the most damage in the fight, the rest of them could manage without for now.

 

Looking up to the dais Mahanon couldn't see any sign of Erimond or Clarel, though the dragon still swooped up ahead. "Let's go," he said.

 

The four of them and any remaining Inquisition soldiers followed as quickly as they could, arriving in time to witness a mage battle between the two of them. And Clarel was... scarily angry.

 

"You! You've destroyed the grey wardens!" she growled as she strode purposefully on.

 

Erimond said something in response but from where Mahanon was he couldn't hear it. It must have been nasty though since it caused Clarel to launch a ferocious attack against him.

 

"We have to help her!" Blackwall said.

 

Mahanon gave a nod and they started forward, only to have to duck back away again as the dragon landed. Faster than Mahanon thought possible, it snatched Clarel up in its jaws and flew off once more.

 

"Fenandhis!" Mahanon swore.

 

The dragon flew around some, then spat her out, tossing her like a doll to the ground. Carefully, Mahanon and the others backed away, not wanting to anger the thing; yes they had just defeated a dragon, but it was an ordinary fire spitting dragon, not one corrupted by blight or red lyrium.

 

"Maker, she's still alive," Mahanon heard Blackwall say.

 

"Gods," he muttered. Her legs weren't working, her back broken, but still she struggled to move, struggled to fight.

 

The dragon stepped over her, ignoring her as dead and forgotten, more interested in Mahanon and his party. Clarel saw her chance and blasted out her remaining strength with magic, causing an explosion that ripped into the side of the dragon.

 

That was all Mahanon saw before he was blasted backwards, the ground crumbling around him. All around him, the stones were falling and frantically they scrabbled away. The dragon was gone, fallen, but if they didn't move soon, they would join it. Mahanon noticed Stroud wasn't in front of him and, glancing back, he saw him scrabbling at the edge of the bridge. He didn't even think, he just knew he couldn't allow him to fall to his death now! Running back, he grabbed Stroud's arm, pulling him up. Not fast enough!

 

Mahanon was slipping, falling back, falling, falling, his hand shot with pain, a rift opening up and then the world was green.

 


	19. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon and co deal with the aftermath of escaping from the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has turned out to have taken a bit of a turn. Long story short, I was bored rehashing the Fade section of the game so figured if I was bored writing it you would likely be bored reading. So I skipped it. You all know what happens anyway. Then I got distracted for a few days working on a secret santa Fenris x FHawke story. I'll post it as well when it's finished if that interests you.
> 
> But, at long last, here it is. Enjoy!

Mahanon and Bull were walking. It didn't matter where, they were just enjoying each other's company and Mahanon was content. He didn't think he would ever feel that again, not after Faerel's death. But it was as though his hallucinations in the blizzard were cathartic and he were freed from the memories and guilt. They still existed, but they no longer drove his life. And now, he thought, smiling over his shoulder at Bull, he was at peace.

 

Rounding a bend Mahanon saw one of the long tables from Skyhold and sitting around it was all their friends and companions, even the ones Mahanon didn't know all that well, even Solas and Dorian.

 

"Bout time you joined us!" Varric called.

 

"All right, food!" Bull declared and he strode forwards, his long legs easily taking him past Mahanon and sitting down at a bench there. Mahanon couldn't see past everyone what was on the table but it smelled delicious and his stomach gave an appreciative grumble. Smiling, he hurried to catch up, to take the spare seat between Bull and Cullen.

 

And skidded to a stop when he caught sight of what actually was on the table. Filth was the only way to describe it. Decapitated heads crawling with flies, severed hands and feet, even a rib cage torn open to reveal someone's heart, lungs, liver.

 

"Come on," Bull said, and his hand shot out to snag Mahanon's wrist, drawing him closer and forcing him to sit down next to him. "Dig in before it gets cold."

 

Up close was even worse, he could see how the skin on the limbs was starting to sag and discolour with decomposition. As he watched, Cullen used a fork to peel back the skin and stab the bloody flesh underneath, bringing it to his mouth and eating it as Mahanon watched, a blissful look on his face. "You really ought to try some of this Lavellan, it's so tender!" he said.

 

Mahanon felt his stomach turn. All around him his friends were happily gorging themselves on the filth, Sera was holding a hand like a corn cob, nibbling along the edge of it, Varric was slurping up a bowl of maggots as though they were noodles. Even Bull was happily loading up both their plates full of 'delicacies' from each plate. What was, perhaps, worse was that the smell did not match what he saw; it all still smelled absolutely delicious.

 

"How can you eat this?" he got out, his voice choked.

 

"How can you not?" Blackwall said. "This is even finer than what's normally served at Josephine's feasts. No offence, Josie."

 

"None taken," his ambassador said, her mouth smeared with blood. "I must find the chef who made them, it is truly delightful!"

 

Mahanon was shaking his head, unable to believe what he was seeing. "Come on Boss, eat up," Bull said, slapping a bowl of meat in front of him that was crawling with flies and maggots. He used a fork and speared some before making flying noises with it. "Here comes the dragon," he cooed.

 

Mahanon made a noise of disgust and pulled away, tumbling backwards off the bench only he never hit the ground. He was falling, falling, the table and his friends growing smaller as they were further and further away. He manages to turn only to see craggy rocks rushing up to meet him.

 

*

 

Mahanon jerked awake with a gasp right when he would have smashed against the rocks. His stomach rolled and he near fell out of bed in his haste to get to the garderobe where he was violently ill. It hurt his chest, vomiting so forcefully, but he couldn't get the images of that so-called feast out of his mind.

 

When his stomach was empty, he sat back and, elbows on the seat, held his head in his hands. His body was covered in a cold, clammy sweat and trembles still shook his body. The dream had started out so nice, just him and Bull and a sense of well-being. And then it had turned to... that. Mahanon felt his stomach roll again and he heaved himself upwards to have another round of it only to be met with bile, his stomach already empty.

 

He had to get out, do something, distract himself and forget the dream. Pushing himself to his feet, Mahanon used the cold water in the wash basin to clean off the nightmare sweat and pull some comfortable clothes on. Going to the balcony he looked out, wishing there was a way down there that didn't involve going through the great hall. Maybe he could talk to someone about making use of the half repaired tower he climbed to get to his room, having a way down in there or something. Though Leliana would be annoyed as it would make another entrance into his chambers that would have to be watched, and he knew Josephine would rather he not be able to skip out on the formalities of meeting various visiting nobility.

 

Looking down he could see the soldiers training, _his_ soldiers training. In the Fade he had found a letter from one of them, someone he remembered meeting while pretending to be Grim when they first arrived at Skyhold. The letter told of how the soldier was scared, how he had been sent with the advance attack. He knew he would not be returning, that the advance attack rarely did. More often they were wiped out to a man. But, he thought, if his death allowed the 'important ones', the ones in power, to achieve their goals then he was willing. By the time Mahanon had reached the end of the letter tears were pricking his eyes. He knew at the time that the soldier was dead and, after returning to Skyhold, it was confirmed. He knew, of course he knew, that some of their soldiers had been sacrificed, that someone always had to be first, and that those who did usually did not survive. They were sacrificed so that those who followed had a better chance at living. But knowing it, even seeing it, wasn't the same as this. This was a person who had a mother, a brother, perhaps even a lover. And now he was gone, snuffed out with as little thought as snuffing out a candle, like so many others. Somewhere family and friends would be grieving, knowing they would never get to see him again. And it wasn't just him, it was hundreds others, thousands. And all for him. On his behalf, on his command, on his say so. Until then he had never really thought about the soldiers who died for the Inquisition; Cullen was a good military leader he generally took care of all that. But the letter he had found made him reassess that; the soldiers followed him, not Cullen. They took Cullen's orders of course but more because they believed they came from him, their Inquisitor. Mahanon had vowed that he would never look at them as just soldiers any more, that he would try to speak with all of them, at least a little, to get to know them so they became people to him rather than just bodies.

 

Sera was down there too, he saw, shooting arrows at the archery butts. Well, that was much better than aiming them at his face, he thought wryly. Of everyone she seemed to be the one most effected by their time in the Fade and, while she had been a tremendous help against the Nightmare demon, he regretted bringing her and subjecting her to that. Of course it wasn't his intention, opening the rift they all fell through perhaps wasn't the best way to break a fall, but that didn't mean he didn't want to make it up to her. Somehow. Maybe for now, allowing her to make fun of him would cheer her some.

 

Going downstairs, making the obligatory greetings to the people who _always_ seemed to be gathered in the great hall as though just waiting for him to arrive like they had nothing better to do, Mahanon made his way outside. He paused at the base of the staircase and dug his toes into the mud there, reminding himself that it was real, he could feel this, unlike the unreality of the Fade, both when he was there physically and in his earlier nightmare. He needed such sensations, he thought, to anchor him.

 

Approaching Sera, he heard her speaking, or counting would be more precise.

 

"Fifty-seven!"

 

An arrow flew, crowding the already crowded centre of the target with a thud.

 

"Fifty-eight!"

 

Another arrow into the target.

 

"Fifty-nine!"

 

Yet another arrow.

 

"Sixty!"

 

Sera spun around and faster than Mahanon could react, loosed her next arrow directly at him. Or not directly it seemed as it whizzed past him, grazing his cheek on its way past. He stumbled back a few paces, eyes wide and heart thumping.

 

"Sera! What-"

 

"That's for that demon fucker!" she snapped.

 

Still angry, got it, but "Sera you only just missed me!"

 

"I don't miss. If I missed you'd be dead," she pointed out.

 

That was true, Mahanon supposed; he had never seen her miss what she was aiming at even if she didn't always aim where he thought she should. Like avoiding aiming at the Inquisitor for example.

 

"I was thinking... you might have some fun trying to teach me how to shoot?" he said.

 

"You need to be taught?" Sera asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

 

Mahanon gave a guilty shrug. "Truth be told, I've already been taught. I'm terrible at it. But you said no one ever taught you so I thought maybe you could give me some pointers."

 

They spent the next two hours or so shooting and all through that time, Mahanon showed no signs of improving. The first time he shot and the arrow didn't even make the target before embedding itself in the ground had Sera in fits of laughter.

 

"Just do better, eh?" Sera had managed to get out when Mahanon turned an exasperated look to her.

 

He did try again, the next one going far too high. He tried again. And again. And again. Before he even got to twenty arrows, his fingers were raw and hurting and his wrist stung from where the bowstring had slapped it. After it smacked his wrist three times consecutively, causing Mahanon to swear louder each time, Sera stopped mocking him long enough to help him with by correcting the way he held the bow. Though she then teased him for the fact that he needed to be told how to fix it in the first place.

 

"How is it your fingers aren't bleeding by the time we finish a fight?" Mahanon asked as he lowered the bow and shook out his hand.

 

"They do sometimes, but only when we've been fighting like, all day or something. Look!" She held out her hand to him and he saw rough patches of skin on the three fingers she used to draw a bow. "Only bleeds when these get ripped off."

 

Mahanon winced just thinking about it. He had callouses as well, though they were on his hands rather than his fingers from wielding his daggers, the constant little slips and grip adjustments that he made subconsciously during a fight causing them.

 

When the sting had faded somewhat he returned to shooting again. If it were at all possible he seemed to be getting worse and what had amused Sera to begin with started to piss her off when she couldn't understand just how he was so bad at what she considered easy and how he couldn't just 'fix it' when he made a mistake.

 

Thankfully he was saved from annoying Sera to the point of her trying to shoot him again when Lady Josephine approached, carefully picking her way through the mud. Mahanon grinned seeing that. "You should take your shoes off when you leave the keep, Josephine. Saves getting your pretty shoes dirty," he teased, wriggling his own bare toes in the mud.

 

"Thank you, but I would rather not," she said and her nose scrunched just a little at the thought, causing Mahanon to grin widely. He loved to tease their ambassador. One day he swore he would get her just a little drunk and running through the keep bare feet like 'an elven savage' as he had heard some of the visiting nobles comment about him. "I sent a messenger asking you to come to the keep but they were scared off by Sera."

 

"Wha? Me?" That put Sera into peels of laughter again.

 

"That," Josephine said, "and the Inquisitor's rogue arrows. They were afraid they would be shot."

 

Sera gave another snort while Mahanon ran a hand through his hair guiltily. "A very real possibility I'm afraid," he admitted.. "What was it you needed me for?" he asked, hoping it wasn't to meet more dignitaries.

 

"You needn't be so reluctant Inquisitor," Josephine said, a smile playing about her lips. Mahanon mentally cursed; he would have to get Bull to give him some of his ben hassrath training to better control his facial expressions. From behind her back Josephine drew out a solid leather case.

 

Mahanon's eyes lit up seeing it and Josephine couldn't help the amused smile as he took it almost reverently. Squatting down, Mahanon rested the case on his knees, opened it, and gasped. Inside was the most beautifully crafted violin, stained so that it looked like it was made from a dark rosewood.

 

"It arrived while you were at Adamant," Josephine said. "I had hoped it would arrive before you left but with all that has happened perhaps it is better this way."

 

"You can play that?" Sera asked, peering over his shoulder.

 

"Yes," Mahanon answered simply.

 

"Huh. Well just don't go making up any songs about me and we're good, yeah?"

 

Mahanon chuckled, well aware of Sera's hatred of Maryden's song even if most of the regular tavern goers loved it. "Have no fear of that. I'm not much of a performer really."

 

"Well good! Cause we don't need another one of those running around," Sera said. That sorted she seemed to lose interest in the situation and went to gather her arrows instead.

 

Running his fingers over the smooth wood, still admiring it, he asked, "How did you know I liked to play?" He hadn't spoken of it at all and had not touched an instrument since the Conclave.

 

"Your keeper told us."

 

That was not what he had been expecting. Snapping the case closed, Mahanon stood. "What?"

 

"In a letter," Josephine clarified. "When your keeper wished to know that you were here of your own will Leliana sent a letter of her own along with yours introducing herself."

 

Mahanon gritted his teeth in irritation. "She had no right," he growled. "I think I need to have a word or three with our dear Spymaster," he said, tucking the case under his arm and striding towards the keep.

 

"Mahanon."

 

Mahanon turned.

 

"Do you like it?"

 

She seemed so worried and anxious, her fingers curling in the folds of her skirt, that Mahanon softened a little. "I love it. Thank you, Josie," he said sincerely, and the smile he got in return was worth it.

 

"I am glad," she said. "Now if you've got time we could -"

 

Mahanon cut Josephine off with a raised hand. "Josie?" he said.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Don't ruin it."

 

Josephine smiled. "As you wish, Inquisitor."

 

*

 

"You had no right!"

 

"I had every right. Your Keeper was concerned and the agent I sent was wearing the Inquisition uniform."

 

"That has nothing to do with it and you know it!"

 

"How long have they been at it?" Cullen asked wearily, a hand absently rubbing the back of his neck.

 

"For hours and hours it seems like," Dorian said with his usual flare for the melodramatics. "I thought about suggesting they work it out in a ring but the Inquisitor would likely agree to such madness, fool that he is, and our dear Spymistress would destroy him and there would be no more Inquisitor, and _then_ where would we be?"

 

"Up shit creek without a paddle, I'm sure."

 

Dorian laughed at that. "My dear Commander, did I just hear you cuss?"

 

The corner of Cullen's mouth twitched. "I'm guessing you haven't tried to talk them down?"

 

"Me? I wouldn't dare! They would likely band together just long enough to hurl me over the balcony and that would ruin my pretty face."

 

"Point taken," Cullen said, then sighed. "Very well, I'll go see if I can talk to them," he said.

 

"Good luck!" Dorian called cheerfully as Cullen climbed the stairs. He was going to need it, he had a feeling.

 

Said luck seemed to be more with him than he thought, however, as Lavellan stormed down the stairs towards him. Seeing Cullen there, he paused and snapped, "I suppose you've been sending secret letters to my Keeper as well, have you?"

 

"What?" Cullen got out, taken aback.

 

"Ugh, nevermind!" he snaped before stalking past.

 

Cullen looked after him briefly before continuing to climb the stairs to the rookery. Leliana was leaning against the railing looking as though she had the world on her shoulders. Which, Cullen supposed, was probably close to the truth.

 

"Have you come to question my decisions as well?" she asked wearily.

 

"No. I came to tear the two of you apart. What was that all about?"

 

"I believe the Inquisitor may have woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning." Cullen rose an eyebrow at that and said nothing. Leliana sighed. "That was... unfair of me. Lavellan took offence to the fact that I have been in communication with his Keeper. And that I did not inform him of such communication."

 

"Why would you need to be in communication with his clan?" Cullen asked, keeping his voice neutral. He leaned sideways against the railing and watched their Spymaster. He never doubted that the woman did whatever was necessary to preserve and protect the Inquisition, though he did not understand how this fell under that category. Nor why Lavellan would have such a strong reaction against it.

 

"To begin with it was to reassure them, along with Lavellan's own letter, that he was here of his own volition, that he was in possession of the mark that had the ability to close rifts. His Keeper then asked to be updated with regards to his health and well being and so, to keep good relations with her I shared such information. She in turn shared some information of her own, of Lavellan's life at the clan and what his useful skills might be. It was beneficial especially since he keeps his past so private. Then after time we became friends. We write every week now. I was speaking with Josie the other week and mentioned that Keeper Deshana had told me how Mahanon used to enjoy playing the violin in private, how it would relax him."

 

"Wait," Cullen cut in. "Lavellan plays the violin? Grumpy, little spitfire Lavellan?"

 

Leliana smiled at his description of their Inquisitor. "It seems so. I thought it might be a good idea to get him one so that he had a chance to unwind while at Skyhold, or even take it with him on some missions. Josie found someone in Val Royaux to make one. She obviously gave it to him this morning if that's what I saw he was carrying, and must have mentioned how she knew to get it." Leliana sighed. "If I had known it would upset him this much, I would have told him that his Keeper and I had become friends earlier but I didn't think he would care either way."

 

"I don't think that would have made much of a difference. I don't know exactly what they saw in the Fade, I don't doubt it was more than what the reports said since they were vague at best, but I do know that those who were with the Inquisitor have come back... different. Harrowed. He would have found something to be angry about, I'm sure," Cullen said wearily.

 

"Maybe The Iron Bull can help him work it out," Leliana said with a playful smirk.

 

"What do you mean?" Cullen asked, confused by the statement.

 

"You'll see," was all Leliana would say in that teasing, sing-song tone of hers.

 


	20. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon helps Bull deal with his demons in a typical Bull-like fashion, and he returns the favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some pretty heavy bdsm and I have updated the tags to reflect that. Please read it at your own discretion. If you don't want to read that stuff, then stop after the scene with Cole (it's pretty obvious when it's about to start so it won't be without warning).

Mahanon had returned to his room after the confrontation with Leliana hoping to relax, to unwind some. He pulled out his violin and tried to play but was so out of practice that it only wound up making him more frustrated and angry so he gave it up as a lost cause. At least in his current frame of mind. He was still furious at Leliana for her letters to Keeper Deshana, and for not telling him. How much did she know about Clan Lavellan's plight? What else might she know that she was keeping secret until it was convenient to use?

 

Growling, Mahanon paced back and forth. He was being irrational, he knew that, logic told him that. But right at that moment, he couldn't help but be irrational and angry. The idea of taking a bath to try to calm down crossed his mind, but he dismissed it as a lost cause also; he could barely halt his pacing long enough to pick up the stack of papers he carelessly knocked off his desk with a swinging arm, he would not be able to sit still in a bath long enough to actually relax.

 

As he crossed past his open balcony door, the sounds of soldiers training drifted up to him. That wasn't so unusual, though hearing Bull's deeper voice over it all was. Moving to stand in the doorway, an eyebrow rose up when he caught sight of what looked like Cassandra beating Bull with a stick. And the big qunari just taking it.

 

"This I have to see," Mahanon muttered to himself as he turned and left his room. Not in the mood to deal with all the Inquisition's hangers-on he rudely ignored them in favour of hurrying outside. He would pay for his rudeness later, he knew, but right at that moment he couldn't bring himself to care.

 

Approaching the space behind the tavern where Cassandra often trained, Mahanon hung back watching, trying to work out what was going on. A glance sent in his direction told him that Bull was aware of his approach but it didn't seem to bother him.

 

_Thwack!_

 

"Again!" Bull said.

 

_Thwack!_

 

"Again!" That was practically a growl.

 

_Thwack!_

 

"Come on!" Bull shouted, irritation clear in his voice. "This is why the Qun doesn't like women fighting! I should have asked Cullen!"

 

Mahanon rose an eyebrow at that; he knew perfectly well that Bull respected Cassandra's fighting skills, even admired them and he had never treated Dalish or Skinner any differently, or even Krem for all that he was biologically female. But it did have the desired effect of riling Cassandra up. Mahanon watched as she seemed to gather herself, then swung the stick, slamming it upside of the chin and sending Bull to the ground.

 

"Good one..." Bull croaked out, much to Mahanon's laughter.

 

"Here," Cassandra said, handing him the stick. "Perhaps you can take over."

 

"Bull, you really want to do this? In public? Where all these people can see?" he teased, arching an eyebrow suggestively.

 

"I'm hardly shy," Bull pointed out, causing Mahanon to smirk. No, shy was definitely one thing Bull had never been. "It's a Qunari training exercise to master one's fear," he explained. "Been a while since I needed it, but that nightmare demon was... big."

 

"What, exactly, is hitting you with a stick supposed to achieve?" Mahanon asked. This was different to handing over control to someone else as Mahanon did in the bedroom, he couldn't understand how it was supposed to work.

 

"I could explain it, but it would need a lot of Qunari words. Just hit me with the stick, alright? I need to get over this demon crap."

 

"Alright," Mahanon said. He knew that going easy wasn't something that Bull would appreciate - Cassandra had already tried that - so Mahanon wound back and swung the stick at the leather belt protecting Bull's abdomen with enough force that it jarred his wrists.

 

"There we go!"

 

Mahanon smiled, glad that Bull seemed pleased with that force. He pulled back and swung again, striking the same spot.

 

"Oh yeah. Damn demon!"

 

Mahanon swung again. His wrists were starting to hurt now, unused to being used in such a way.

 

"Who's stuck in the Fade, huh?"

 

Mahanon hit him again, and, surprisingly, he was starting to get into it. "That demon wanted to tear you apart! But you didn't let it!" he said, grinning.

 

"Damn straight!" Bull roared, cut a bit short when the stick struck him again. "Piece of fade, piece of crap!"

 

Mahanon wasn't sure he wanted to admit it, but he was enjoying beating Bull with a stick, channelling his anger and frustrations at his advisers into each strike.

 

"And who killed you?" Bull growled.

 

Mahanon threw his own anger into every hit and, strangely, even the pain in his wrists didn't seem to matter all that much any more.

 

"Iron fucking Bull!" That was practically a roar and a single step back indicated to Mahanon to stop. "Thanks boss," Bull said, panting slightly. "I needed that."

 

"I didn't know you liked it that rough," Mahanon teased.

 

Bull laughed. "Only from you boss, only from you."

 

"So... the pain actually helps you deal with shit?"

 

"Sometimes. What's on your mind?"

 

Mahanon thought about it. He had been out of sorts since returning from the Fade and Adamant. No more than any of the others who had been with him, of course, but he could afford it less, he had to keep it together. Not like he had just done with Leliana.

 

"I can't stop thinking about what happened at Adamant, the nightmares, and Stroud..." he trailed off and shook his head, not wanting to think about it any more. All he had done was think about it, torment himself with it, and he wanted it to end. "I want you to try it with me. Like before but... more. I don't want you to hold back," Mahanon said.

 

"I'll always hold back, but I can push you to right to your breaking point if you like," Bull replied.

 

Mahanon frowned. It wasn't what he wanted but he nodded anyway; that was likely the best he would get and, he supposed, if Bull exerted the same strength against him as he did against their enemies he would probably be snapped in two like little more than a twig. "So long as it's right to the point of saying katoh," he said.

 

Bull's eye moved up and down, assessing, and then he nodded. "Is that so?" He walked towards Mahanon and kept coming as Mahanon stepped back until his back was pressed against the tavern's wall, the stone rough against his back. Bull rested a hand against the wall next to his head, the other lightly stroked the side of Mahanon's cheek. Mahanon found his eyes drifting closed, head tilting towards that touch. The hand moved around to the front of his neck, again lightly touching, running up and down. It paused. Then tightened. Mahanon's eyes flew open as Bull's large hand easily began to slowly crush his throat against the wall of the tavern. Breathing became difficult.

 

_A rope biting into skin._

 

_Green eyes locked onto his._

 

_A spurt of blood, bright red._

 

"Katoh!" Mahanon gasped out and instantly the pressure was gone. Mahanon's eyes squeezed shut and he bit into his tongue not wanting to make a sound as he felt his eyes grow hot. So little had made him call to stop, it was shameful. Was that what it meant for Bull not to hold back? Would he now not help him?

 

"Open your eyes, Kadan."

 

Bull's voice was soft, gentle, and that alone was the reason Mahanon opened his eyes. Bull's face was kind, not showing any sign that he resented Mahanon for using his word. "Was it the assassins you saw when I did that?"

 

Mahanon shook his head. Strangely the assassination attempted bothered him less than Faerel's death. Perhaps because it was his own life, not someone he had to protect. That and he knew that the Chargers guarding his door would never allow someone they didn't know and trust in now. Regardless though, he didn't want to talk about it and Bull had said he wouldn't have to so he remained silent. After a few moments Bull nodded his head. "All right. So nothing that restricts breathing, got it. Do you know of any other limits?"

 

Mahanon relaxed a little when it was clear Bull wasn't going to question him further about the reasons behind him calling that off. He thought about it, then shook his head. "I'm not exactly experienced in this," he admitted. "But I'll let you know if something comes up. I promise."

 

Bull seemed to accept that as he smiled and pushed himself away from the wall, straightening. "All right. Come to your room tonight when you're ready. I'll be there waiting. We'll play a little game, shall we?" The corner of Mahanon's mouth twitched; he didn't know what kind of game Bull was thinking of but he was fairly sure it would be fun. "A wager. You need to walk to the centre of your room and undress. I'll wait for that. Then you need to try to escape. I will stop you. When I catch you, as I know I will, then I'll _really_ let you have it."

 

Mahanon felt heat pool in his groin just at that promise. "I wouldn't be so sure of yourself, Bull," he said though, a playful smile on his face. "I can be pretty fast when I want to be. You get to have your fun if you catch me, but what if you don't and I get away? I think you should be punished in some way as well."

 

Bull grunted. "What did you have in mind?"

 

Mahanon thought about it. Hitting Bull with the stick had been fun, but he didn't seem to get the same enjoyment out of that as Bull got from dominating him. Something different then. "If I get away - just to the tower, I'm not going down to the great hall - you have to take a stroll around Skyhold's battlements. Just as you are. Completely naked."

 

A slow grin spread over Bull's face at that. "Deal," he rumbled.

 

Mahanon grinned at that, then it turned to a low whine. "Now I don't know what one I want more!"

 

Bull laughed. "Be a good boy, and maybe you can get both. Maybe, but only if you earn it. Now get going and go do what you need to do. And boss? Try not to stab anyone in the mean time with your pointy knives." Mahanon tried cutting in, correcting with "Daggers," but it was completely ignored. "I'll see you tonight," Bull said.

 

*

 

It seemed as though everyone needed some of Mahanon's time. Cassandra wanted to speak of an expedition to Caer Oswin in search of any remaining seekers, Sera had some Red Jenny business she wanted help with, Vivienne wanted to search for a heart of all things. The latest was Cullen who requested his help in notifying the families of those killed at Adamant in their service. It was a painfully long list but, remembering the letter he had found in the Fade and his promise to start thinking of the men and women who died for him as people rather than just a mass of soldiers, he accepted. He was now the proud owner of three sheets of names. Cullen had taken the other three to take some of the burden. Up here on the battlements, the wind was frigid and, despite the leather jacket he was wearing, seemed to pierce right through his clothes to his lungs. It started with just one cough, then two. The wind continued to blow, whipping around his face and lifting the flaps of his jacket and the coughing intensified until he was holding onto the wall for support, gasping.

 

"You don't care about people."

 

Mahanon looked up to see Cole before him. Great, now the spirit had seen him like this. Taking several deep breaths to try to still the coughs, he got out, "What? What are you talking about?"

 

"What I said. You don't care about people, and I don't have to stay here."

 

"Is this because you disagreed with my decision to keep the Grey Wardens nearby? And I kept the Templars as allies?"

 

"They were hurting people. You let them go without any consequences so they can go on hurting people."

 

"Creator's sake, Cole! The Templars have suffered enough under the Chantry and those responsible for the bloodshed, their leaders, have been dealt with and continue to be dealt with. As for the Grey Wardens, most of their mages are dead already and they were the ones who turned to blood magic. Would you have me kill them all? Exile them to a foreign land? What would we do if a blight came then? I doubt they would be willing to come back to aid the land that exiled them!" Mahanon snapped. Realizing he was starting to take out the day's frustrations on the spirit boy who so clearly didn't understand the way things were, Mahanon closed his eyes, pinching high on his nose as he strove for calm. In a softer voice, he said, "I'm sorry you don't agree with my decisions, Cole, but I'm doing the best I can. You're doing good here, helping people who don't even realize they need help. Won't you reconsider staying?" he asked.

 

"No," Cole said.

 

"But-"

 

"You won't miss me," Cole cut in. "Forget..."

 

*

 

Light, then darkness, then light again. Or at least the dim light of twilight. Mahanon frowned. There was... something. He had gone to see Cullen, got the pages full of names. The wind was cold and he had started coughing. And then... nothing. Had he blacked out? That was worrying if so. Looking around quickly though he couldn't see anyone who might have seen and breathed a sigh of relief. Then smiled. It was twilight which meant he could soon escape to his rooms. He thought about finding some food at the tavern first but then decided against it; he didn't know exactly what Bull had planned for the evening but he didn't think he would enjoy it as much on a full stomach. Besides, any time he thought of food he was reminded of the dessicated corpses and rotting meat everyone had been consuming in this morning's nightmare and food was then the last thing he wanted.

 

A shiver went through Mahanon that had nothing to do with the cold and entirely to do with the memories, and he tucked the sheets of paper under his arm and hurried up the stairs to Skyhold keep. He wanted these memories gone and if hitting Bull with a stick had helped him deal with them then maybe something similar would help Mahanon. Either way he would put himself entirely in the big Qunari's hands for the night and trust that he knew what was best for him.

 

Climbing the stairs to his room, Mahanon's heart started pounding in his chest. He was nervous about just what Bull had planned. He had told him not to hold back, to push him right to the point of saying Katoh. Alright, so in the yard Bull had proven just how easy that was, but Mahanon didn't think he would be choked again which meant there would be other ways to try to break him. He was nervous, but a part of him was slightly aroused by the thought of what was to come. Last time Bull had taken complete control his body had responded strongly. He didn't fight last time, allowed it all to happen, but the thought of fighting, imagining how he could use his speed to escape Bull, was, perhaps, even more exciting. Mahanon paused at the base of the final stairs to his room and rested his hand on the wall, eyes closed. He took a deep breath, both calming himself and psyching himself up. He could do this and if he got caught, he knew he could take whatever it was Bull decided to do.

 

Finally climbing the last of the stairs, Mahanon's grey eyes darted around the room, taking everything in. The room looked much the same as it always did, though the windows were all closed and a nice fire burning in the fire place heating the room comfortably. The only thing different, he saw, was that his desk had been cleaned off, the papers stacked neatly on top of his dresser instead and the other odds and ends not in sight, likely in one of the drawers. Bull was sitting in the desk chair wearing his pants but forgoing the leather straps he insisted were called a harness. The smallest smile twitched his lips as he saw Mahanon arrive and, with a glance, he indicated that Mahanon should do as they had arranged.

 

Mahanon moved first to the dresser and added the papers to the top of the pile there to deal with later. Bull didn't seem to mind this delay though as he watched while Mahanon walked back to the centre of the room, striving for a calm he did not feel. His fingers were trembling as they undid the clasps on his first his jacket, then the ties on his shirt. He pulled both over his head and tossed them to land on the end of the bed. His mouth twitched a little as he started to unlace his breeches, feeling Bull's eyes on him. Part of him wanted to take it slow, to tease and taunt, but another part, a larger part, just wanted to get on with it so that he could forget everything at least for a while. He slipped the pants off and kicked them aside out of the way. He looked up just in time to see Bull stand and then launch himself towards Mahanon.

 

Laughing despite himself, Mahanon danced aside. Bull was fast, much faster than anyone really gave him credit for for someone of his size. But Mahanon had grown up as a hunter, disadvantaged by his inability to master the bow so often had to chase down and catch his prey before he could use his daggers for the kill. He was faster and each time Bull made a grab at him he caught nothing but air. Mahanon laughed at Bull's attempts, sure that he wasn't really trying so, consequently Mahanon didn't try to immediately run for the stairs. It was kind of fun to see Bull grow frustrated.

 

"This how you fight demons? You play with them? Dodge and run away from them?" Bull growled.

 

That surprised Mahanon enough that it allowed Bull to grab his wrist, a slip knot tightening a rope around it. "Well, no," Mahanon said.

 

He was pulled roughly forward to be face to face with Bull. "Then fight me," Bull growled before a shove to his chest pushed him sharply backwards, the rope around his wrist, the other end held by Bull, tightening and keeping him upright.

 

He was right, Mahanon thought. It wasn't meant to be playful fun. It would turn into that, he had no doubt about that, but it was supposed to help him get over what had happened in the Fade, that was what he had asked Bull to do. "Pretend you're a demon?" he asked, wanting to make sure he understood correctly.

 

Bull shook his head. "I _am_ a demon. A demon who has you already in his grasp," a sharp tug of the rope attached to his wrist to emphasise the fact, "while you are vulnerable without your armour and defenceless without your weapons." He took a step forwards. "If I possess you that's it, you lose, the Inquisition is ended and your clan dies out. So fight me!" Those last three words were practically growled out.

 

Mahanon looked away, gritted his teeth and balled his fists. Was this the stuff that was going through Bull's mind when he had had Cassandra beat him with the stick? It made sense, he supposed. If that would-

 

A sharp slap to his bare arse broke into Mahanon's thoughts. "Less thinking, more fighting!" Bull said and he emphasised it with another hard smack. He rose his hand to give a third but Mahanon ducked down, rolling under it and coming awkwardly to his feet. The rope attached to his wrist was yanked and he was pulled forwards, off-balance. His assassin training had taught him several pressure points that it was useful to stick a dagger into and he made good use of them only this time he punched. Bull wasn't wearing the armour that was protecting most of them meaning Mahanon could reach them easily and Heir had made sure he could fight someone significantly larger than himself. He struck one with enough force that one of Bull's legs collapsed under him. Mahanon started to use the distraction to pull at the rope to get it off his wrist so he could actually get away when his legs were pulled out from under him, slamming him down onto the floor on his back. He rolled on to his front to scrabble away but a knee landed on Mahanon's ankle just hard enough to pin him there. The rope was pulled then and Mahanon was forced to kneel up. He swung his other fist wildly, trying to do something to break Bull's grip but the tied wrist was forced up behind his back and, with a few quick loops, was fastened in that position with the ends of the rope. He was lifted by the rope and there was enough of a pause for him to get his feet under him before he was pulled back away from the stairs they had steadily been moving towards. The whole way Mahanon struggled, twisting this way and that, his free hand trying to grab Bull or grab something that would help him, but Bull's reach was much longer than Mahanon's and he was kept easily at bay. He couldn't even see what Bull was doing; because of where Bull was holding the ropes, attempting to twist his torso enough to see pulled his shoulder and wrist painfully. He was turned so he was facing the far windows of his room and then, with a slight push, he was let go.

 

Mahanon quickly took three steps away. Not quite fast enough as he let out a yelp feeling something sharp sting across the back of his thighs. Spinning around he saw Bull there barring his way once more, a cane in hand. It was only now that he saw the cloth sack that had been sitting next to the desk, hidden from initial view. No doubt it was full of all kinds of 'goodies'.

 

Mahanon watched as Bull flicked the cane up and down, it making an audible whooshing sound through the air. "Yeah, like you really need the extra reach," Mahanon muttered, his bound arm yanking futilely at the ropes that held it. His free one reached up behind him to try to reach the knots (because _of course_ they were behind him where he couldn't reach) but it was no use; he was flexible enough to touch the knots but he couldn't get the grip he needed to undo them.

 

"That demon was big," Bull said. Well. That was true. "You gonna pussyfoot around it like you're pussyfooting around me?" Mahanon gritted his teeth in irritation. He was trying damnit! But Bull had all the advantages. So had the demon, he reminded himself, and all the demons in the fade, the ones that could get into his head and -

 

He saw the cane swinging towards him a fraction too late and felt it bite into the side of his thigh even as he darted away. Mahanon rubbed the welt it raised frantically.

 

"You gonna keep fighting? Or you giving in. Giving in to the demons?" Bull demanded.

 

"Never!" Mahanon growled and he launched forwards. It was harder to balance with the one arm tied behind him, but he managed. He kept trying to dart past and around Bull, even to get in close enough to punch one of the pressure points he knew worked on the Qunari, but whenever he came too close that damn cane would whip out and bite against him. Soon he had a dozen welts scattered over his body from when he hadn't dodged fast enough. He was breathing heavily, a light sweat coating him. The room was almost too warm now, with the fire burning heating it and with Mahanon's exertion.

 

"Ready to give in yet? To submit?" Bull asked.

 

His cock, traitorous appendage that it was, twitched a little at that word: submit. His mouth had something different to say, however. "Never!" he said again. "You'll have to force me if you ever want that to happen."

 

"That can be arranged," Bull said.

 

Mahanon swallowed when he realized that he had basically just given Bull permission to do just that. Bull approached slowly, that damn cane always at the ready. A few times Mahanon tried to dart past, but each time was met with a sharp sting as the cane struck him, mostly around his thighs. Gritting his teeth, Mahanon realized he had two choices: retreat and eventually find himself trapped up against a wall, or bear the pain of the cane he knew would hit and get past. Well. It wasn't a choice really; he was never going to willingly give in, and what was a little pain really?

 

Gritting his teeth and taking a breath, Mahanon darted first one side, and then the other. It was as though Bull had expected the move though. The expected strikes landed in quick succession on his thighs but as soon as it was clear he was ignoring them, one landed across his middle. He ignored that too and then he was past Bull!

 

A hand grabbed the knot-work behind his back and yanked, pulling Mahanon off his feet and he would have fallen were it not for that same hand holding him upright, ensuring he didn't. And also ensuring he couldn't escape the three sharp strikes from the cane to the back of his thighs, each one tearing out a cry from the elf. There would have been more but Mahanon's free hand shot down as though to shield himself from any more hits and the cane struck the open palm instead. He felt himself pulled backwards until his back was against Bull's chest.

 

"You're mine now, elf," the Qunari growled in his ear and Mahanon shivered a little. He was caught, he knew that, but still he struggled, twisting and turning as much as he could even as he was dragged backwards. He was turned around then and slammed down against the desk. It stunned him a little but then he used it as leverage and kicked out. Bull simply ignored him and started using the cane again on his arse. Mahanon only managed to take two strikes, yelping each time, before his free hand once more snaked around behind him to try to shield himself. Bull simply grabbed the hand and dropped the cane. It soon joined its brother in being tied up behind his back.

 

"Now stay there," Bull said.

 

Ha! Mahanon thought. Like that's going to happen. As soon as the pressure pushing him down to the desk was released, Mahanon is up and running towards the stairs. He takes maybe four steps before Bull has grabbed him again. This time he lifts him up bodily and tosses him over his shoulder, holding him there with a hand across the back of his knees. "Damn it Bull! Put me down."

 

"Ah ah. I told you to stay and you chose not to," Bull said. He held him over his shoulder easily as he reached into his back and pulled something out. "If you can't be trusted to stay, you can't be trusted to see." He dropped Mahanon over the desk once more but then a cloth was fastened over his eyes, tied tightly behind his head. He didn't have the use of his hands to remove it but he was still pressed against the desk so he started rubbing his face against it to push it upwards. He even managed to see out of one eye before Bull caught on to what he was doing. He growled and lifted Mahanon from the desk, lowering the blindfold once more, then forcing him to bend over something else, the arm of the chair or couch perhaps? Mahanon couldn't tell exactly. Bull was doing something else with ropes, attaching some to the knots at his back and tying them somewhere, somehow keeping him bent over like that but pulled taunt enough so that he couldn't rub his face against anything and remove the blindfold. He felt Bull's hands on his ankles then and, still fighting, kicked out. He grinned when he felt his heel connect solidly, but it didn't make any difference. His foot was caught and rope tied around it, tying it still to the leg of the chair (assuming that's what he was bent over). First one foot, and then the other.

 

And then all sense of touch left. A slight tremor ran through Mahanon. Blindfolded, he had no way to tell what Bull was doing or where he was and the damned Qunari was as silent as ever. His arms were tied up behind his back and, no matter how much he pulled, he could not budge them. Ropes that were looped around his chest and over his shoulders were tied to something that held him bent over, but he was raised on his toes, most of his weight resting on his hips and stomach, and his ankles fastened tightly. More than that though, his arse was bare and in the air. He thought he knew what was coming. Bull had enjoyed spanking him before and, of course his traitorous body, had responded just as strongly. Consequently he gasped a little in surprise when he felt slip something inside him. It was only small and Bull had obviously oiled it to make it slip in easier, it didn't hurt, but it was the surprise that made him gasp. "What was that?" he asked.

 

Bull was silent for some time, then said simply, "You'll see. Now. Do you still feel the need to fight me?"

 

Mahanon turned his head towards where the voice had come from and snarled at Bull. "Untie me and I'll show you fighting," he growled.

 

He heard the whoosh of air a fraction of a second before the sting spread across his raised buttocks. More than that though, as he clenched down he felt something in his arse, something from that bead. It was a warm sting, not painful but definitely noticeable. "Count for me," Bull said. He swung again, this one landing just slightly lower.

 

Mahanon gasped and once more felt that bead or whatever it was do... whatever it did, then said, "Fuck you, motherfucker."

 

Whatever it was swung again and smacked against his flesh, harder this time. Once, twice, three times, each one moving lower, swinging harder. The initial sting turned to a burn, then a warmth. "Count."

 

He swung again. _Smack!_

 

"Fuck you."

 

_Smack!_

 

"Motherfucker."

 

_Smack!_

 

"Fuck you." Mahanon's voice was somewhat strained now, the heat spreading down the back of his thighs.

 

_Smack!_

 

"Motherfucker," he got out. Each time he had clenched with a strike that bead thing had activated and he was now rather aroused to go along with rather tender.

 

He heard Bull give a melodramatic sigh and couldn't help but grin. Bull wanted him to fight, he wanted to work to break him, well Mahanon was going to make him work. He may not be able to see or move much but he had always been told his mouth was sharp enough to rip shreds off people when he so desired it. "Come on, that the best you got?" he taunted. "I got worse spankings as a child!"

 

"Oh I'm just getting warmed up."

 

Mahanon flinched a little; that was spoken a lot closer to him than he thought Bull was. There was pressure at his anus and then another, larger, bead slipped in. He was sure that's what they were now, beads of some kind. Though what kind could cause the kinds of sensations these did he had no idea. He felt Bull's hand wrap around his penis and then... rope? Mahanon went very still. Rope or cord of some kind was tied around the base and around his scrotum, not too tight but enough that he could feel it. Bull gave his hip an appreciative tap for holding still; not like Mahanon was willing to struggle when he was being tied _there_. "What's that for?" he asked.

 

"My little elf whore isn't coming until I say so tonight. That's just a little security to the fact," Bull said, and he flicked the tip before moving away. "But don't worry. There's more."

 

Mahanon gritted his teeth. He felt Bull running his hands over his back, his sides, his chest. He was rubbing and pulling at his nipples, first one, pinching it and rolling it between thumb and finger, then the other. Then he returned to the first, and pinched it sharply, hard enough to make Mahanon gasp. He heard the clink of a light chain and then something solid and unyielding clamped on the tender nipple. "What-" he broke off with a gasp when Bull flicked whatever it was, small shocks lancing through his body. He felt the cool chain go around his chest and back and then Bull was tormenting the other nipple. He was expecting it this time when the second clamp was fastened but still gasped when it was flicked as well. The chain rested against the small of his back, cool against his heated skin. He felt Bull lace his fingers in it and, with little twitches he was was able to tug and flick the clamps, making Mahanon moan softly and arch his back as much as the ropes would allow.

 

Mahanon felt that Bull kept one hand holding the chain at his back. The other was rubbing and massaging the tender flesh of his arse. He smacked it twice and Mahanon clenched down, then gasped again. This time the sensation was stronger and a soft moan escaped him as it eased. Bull chuckled. "I thought you might like that."

 

"I hate you," Mahanon muttered.

 

"Oh not yet you don't." Bull rested the chain against Mahanon's back (though not before giving it another little tug) and stepped away. Mahanon heard him take something out of his bag. He rested it against Mahanon's upturned arse as he took hold of the chain once more. He thought it felt like a paddle and he tried to steel himself, remembering from last time just how much that had stung, but Bull was making it very difficult to focus as he kept twitching the chain, sending shooting sensation through his nipples and chest with each movement. "Now," he said. "You are going to count these. You are going to start at one. And I will keep going until you start counting. At one."

 

That was all the warning Mahanon got before the paddle was lifted then brought down with a resounding crack against his bare arse. He tensed and his gasp at the pain turned to a moan of pleasure as the beads did that _thing_ inside him. The paddle was rested on the heated flesh, waiting for a count that never came. It rose and slammed down again. Pain, clench, moan, relax. Pause, waiting. Silence. And again. Mahanon heard a whistling as the paddle swung through the air and the third time it hit he couldn't hold back the cry of pain. It was a different paddle to what Bull had used earlier. This one hurt more. After the fifth strike and still Mahanon wasn't counting, Bull lowered where he was hitting to the incredibly sensitive flesh right where his arse met his thighs. No sooner had the strike landed than he started fiddling with the chain, flicking and moving the clamps on his nipples at the same time as the bead activated. That was almost too much and Mahanon knew that were it not for the ropes that bound him so expertly he would have lost his seed right then. Bull seemed to realize this and, with a tug, pulled out one of the beads, leaving the smallest still in there.

 

"Count for me, little elf," Bull growled into his ear, before bringing the paddle down again.

 

Mahanon only lasted another two strikes before, as the paddle was lifted he got out a hasty, "One!"

 

"Good boy," Bull murmured before striking the flesh again. The paddle rested on the punished flesh as the single bead pulsed inside him and the nipple clamps twitched and shook.

 

"Two," Mahanon whispered when he was able.

 

"Louder," Bull warned before he brought the paddle down again. Mahanon cried out in pain as it hit, the burning pain followed by the tingling in his arse and the electricity in his nipples driving all coherent though from his mind. "Count. Or you start again at one."

 

"Two... no three!" Mahanon got out, his correction causing Bull to chuckle. It didn't stop him from bringing the paddle down again, though he did aim a little lower. It made no difference to Mahanon as a choked scream escaped him this time. Still, "Four," he got out once the waves receded.

 

By the time they got to seven, Mahanon was no longer thinking of anything. Nothing existed for him but the pinch of the ropes, the pain of the strikes, the pleasure of the bead and clamps, and his counting. His counting alone kept him grounded and stopped him from floating off... somewhere.

 

At ten something changed. The strikes no longer fell and the ropes around his ankles was loosened followed by the ones holding him bend forwards. He was carried somewhere then dropped, landing on something soft. His bed. Mahanon whined; he was too hard, Bull couldn't be putting him to bed yet. Hearing it, Bull laughed. "Oh don't worry, I'm not finished with you yet." Reassured, Mahanon let himself drift. Face down on the bed, his legs were bound differently, thighs to calves. It stung, the pressure on the back of his thighs, and he could feel their heat on his calves. He was flipped over onto his back and pulled forwards so that his hips were only just on the edge of the bed and his body pinned his arms behind him. His legs were pulled outwards and held in position with, he guessed, more rope since he couldn't pull them in when Bull let go. Then he felt nothing. Nothing but the burn on his thighs and the cold air on his overly sensitive backside. He waited. And then he fidgeted as he heard nothing, felt nothing. "Bull?" he called out, a hint of panic in his voice, fearing that the qunari had left him tied like this.

 

"Mmm you look so delicious like this, I could just eat you now."

 

The relief Mahanon felt at hearing Bull's voice was quickly superseded by memories of his nightmare, of eating rotting flesh, of-

 

He broke off with a pained cry. "Hey, none of that. Come back to me." This was followed by three more open palmed spanks and, on the overly sensitive flesh, it hurt almost as much as the paddle did and brought him back to that place of no-thought. One of Bull's hands was rubbing and massaging the his arse while the other one pulled out the bead and replaced it with a finger. Mahanon whimpered at the intrusion but it was more of a token sound; the bead had gotten him used to feeling something inside him which was no doubt its intention. He could feel Bull's finger moving inside him and, every now and then when he started to slip into thinking, another couple of hard slaps on his rump would drive the thoughts from his mind. It didn't take much to do that now. Another finger, and then a third and all three stretched and pressed. There was some pain, a burning feeling, but Bull was good at distracting him, either by tapping his arse or by flicking the still attached nipple clamps, and it didn't hurt as much as Mahanon had thought it would. Bull took his time with this, causing pain but always countering it with some pleasure and ensuring that he did it right.

 

Then, with a suddenness that surprised him, all fingers were removed, leaving him feeling empty. He whined a little at that, but then felt Bull's own erection nudging the hole. He felt his breath hitch with nerves; Bull was big, properly proportioned for his size but still big for Mahanon. He had taken him in his mouth before but that was it. Two quick spanks, one to each arse cheek stopped that trail of thought and he relaxed; he could trust Bull and he knew that, if he couldn't handle it, he had his safe word. Bull didn't thrust in immediately, he just rested it there, letting Mahanon get used to the fact that it was there. His hands wandered, running up the sides of his legs, over his stomach, his chest. They flicked the clamps.

 

Pain-pleasure surged through Mahanon as he felt the clips suddenly and violently removed. No, not violently, just quickly. It hurt more than when they had been applied but in the same way that spanking hurt, an initial pain and then warmth and pleasure. And Bull was rubbing them, massaging and pinching slightly and Mahanon groaned, arching his back into the touch. It was then that he realized that Bull had entered him at the same time as he removed the clamps. It hurt too, but the pain was superseded by what he felt in his chest. Bull inched his way inwards, pausing whenever Mahanon winced and rubbing and pinching his nipples, stroking his sides, slapping his arse, whatever he needed to let him relax and let go.

 

Once he was fully inside, Bull started drawing himself out again with the same incredible torturous slowness that he had entered with. He then started to thrust back in again, also going slow. Mahanon whined and wriggled his hips, trying to get Bull to go faster. He received a slap for his efforts, harder than before. When Bull was fully inside again, he paused and shifted. While Mahanon couldn't see what he was doing, he figured he must have leaned over him as, when he spoke, it was right near his ear. "You're mine now, elf," he growled and he emphasised it with a sharp nip to Mahanon's sensitive ear tip, causing him to yelp. Bull grabbed hold of his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise and held him still as he pulled out then thrust violently in again, his hips slamming into Mahanon's punished flesh with a meaty smack and causing Mahanon to cry out at the pain. He pulled out slow and once again slammed hard back inside. With each thrust Mahanon shouted and the speed picked up, going faster and faster. He wanted to come, needed it, longed for it but those damn ropes were holding him back. "Bull... Bull, please," he got out between thrusts.

 

"Hmm? What is it little elf?" Bull said and he paused in his thrusts, using the opportunity to rub and pinch Mahanon's nipples.

 

"Please... please touch me. Let me cum," he got out, his face going bright red to the ear tips at being forced to beg for it.

 

"I think not," Bull said and Mahanon whined. "You are far too coherent to allow such a thing yet." And then he pulled out completely.

 

"Noooooo," Mahanon complained as he was left feeling empty. Empty and incomplete.

 

Something was pushed into his mouth, something that felt like leather. A gag? Mahanon grew nervous but then it wasn't tightened; he could spit it out if he wanted to in order to use his word. "Bite on that. You're going to scream for me. Then I might let you cum."

 

Mahanon did as he was instructed as his heart raced. He then felt a warm wetness on one of his nipples, followed by a sharp sting. Bull was sucking, licking and biting it and Mahanon groaned, pushing his chest upwards to try to get more of that. A quick whoosh was all the warning he got before the sharp sting spread across his buttocks. The cane. He was using the cane again only this time he was hit in earnest. It made him realize that all the other little hits he got in trying to get away from Bull had just been gentle warning taps, just to get him warmed up. This stung and burned. There was heat and pleasure, yes, but it was a long time coming, much longer between the pain and the pleasure with this than with the paddle. The first strike made him shout but the second made him scream and he bit into the leather, hoping he wasn't being too loud and that someone would come checking. The Chargers still guarded his door, surely they were aware of Bull's tastes and could turn away anyone who might hear. The third strike brought another choked scream and drove all thought of the Chargers and what they might be hearing from his mind. The fourth had tears springing to his eyes, even as they were clenched closed and then absorbed by the blindfold. The fifth and he was screaming in earnest and he didn't even notice that Bull had stopped playing with his nipples. His word was on the tip of his tongue. He could say it and it would end. But he held back. He wanted this, _needed_ it. Nothing else drove the demons away. The pain was incredible, worse than he had ever felt before, but it was working. Another strike, another scream and Mahanon was practically gnawing on the the leather in his mouth.

 

His chest shook with barely held back sobs when he felt Bull roughly thrust back inside him, the smack against his new welts causing him to scream again. His arsehole burned with the sudden penetration but it wasn't as bad as it could have been since he was already stretched from before. There was no easing into it now, Bull was thrusting hard and fast, every time slamming against Mahanon's freshly punished arse.

 

And then, finally, he felt Bull's hand wrap around his penis and Mahanon gave a small sob of relief as that need was sated at least a little. "Cum for me, my little elf whore. Let me feel you clench around me," Bull growled, his voice low and deep. Mahanon needed very little encouragement but, with the ties around his shaft, it still took a little encouragement from Bull's hand. And then his whole body stiffened and clenched, his back arching as it felt as though he were shooting fire and he screamed in earnest.

 

Vaguely he was aware of Bull giving one final thrust inside him and holding there as his own seed spilled before slowly withdrawing. All the ropes were untied and, gently the leather bite and blindfold removed. It didn't matter, Mahanon wasn't really seeing anything for now; not that he was blind, he just couldn't seem to focus on anything in particular. His body was still a riot of both pain and pleasure and Mahanon was trembling, still riding the waves of his orgasm even as he lay boneless on the bed.

 

Mahanon was manoeuvred to lay on his stomach, legs stretched out. He gasped when he felt something cold spread over the back of his thighs and his backside. "What," he got out, trying to twist to see what Bull was doing.

 

Bull just laid a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. He wasn't rough but he was insistent and he didn't have to try all that hard, Mahanon's muscles were still twitching with aftershocks and he couldn't really put up much of a fight. "Easy, Kadan," Bull said, his voice soft and gentle. "Let me do this for you, my brave, strong elf. It will help."

 

Mahanon relaxed at his words and brought his arms up to rest his forehead on his clasped wrists. It was helping. Whatever it was - some kind of gel perhaps? - stayed cold even against his hot flesh and the cold helped sooth the sting. No doubt it would ease some of the bruising too. It did have the effect of making him shiver with cold though. Carefully and ever so gently, Bull picked him up and wrapped a blanket around him, cradling him close as he sat on the bed, his back against the backboard. Held like that, safe, warm, and secure, with Bull gently rubbing circles on his back and murmuring words of encouragement, Mahanon felt exhaustion claim him and he drifted asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that turned out to be much longer than I thought it would. Oh well, hopefully you enjoy it. If you have any suggestions, especially regarding the bdsm scene please let me know :) I don't want to do Bull a disservice since he's actually a very caring and considerate character.


	21. Hyndel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon is forced to accept the truth about his cough and hopes that Hyndel's potions will help.

It was the coughing that woke Mahanon the following morning. He was curled up against Bull's chest, the big qunari snoring softly, so he tried to suppress it, not wanting to wake him. He clenched his teeth tight and swallowed as he carefully untangled himself from the blankets and pushed away, wincing as his weight briefly transferred onto his arse, even as it made him smile a little; last night had been the best sleep he had had in a long time and, were it not for the coughing that was still causing his chest to spasm with him trying to stop it, he would still be peacefully sleeping away.

 

Going to the fireplace, he moved the grate aside and knelt down to poke at the dying embers and put another log on from the stack sitting in wait beside the hearth. He stood then and replaced the grate but that was as far as he got before he could hold back the coughing no longer. Holding on to the mantle for support, he tried to keep it as quiet as possible. He need not have bothered; a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and Bull in turn wrapped his arms about him.

 

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" Bull said.

 

Mahanon smiled and shook his head, putting on a brave face. "It's fine," he said when he got his breath back. "Just a cough."

 

"Mahanon," Bull growled and he turned him around, hands still on his shoulders, to look him in the eye. Mahanon was surprised; Bull rarely ever called him by his first name. It was always Boss, or Kadan (and he still didn't know what that meant, some qunari term of endearment he figured), and rarely Lavellan. That he said 'Mahanon' made him suspect that Bull was either quite serious or annoyed with him. "Tell me the truth."

 

Mahanon looked away and considered lying again, but then decided against it; Bull only asked because he cared, Mahanon knew that. And Bull was also the only one who knew the whole story of what was happening with his clan even if he had been drunk when he made the decision to tell him. If there was anyone he could be entirely truthful with, it was Bull. "Yes," he said.

 

"How often?"

 

"Once or twice a day like that. Annoying, tickling coughs more often," Mahanon admitted. Saying it aloud like that made it seem worse and so much more real; he had been able to ignore it and pretend it wasn't happening up until now, pretend that what it was wasn't obvious. "I can hide it for the most part, clear my throat, take a drink. Walk away to be alone or use the privy if I can't hold back actual coughing any longer."

 

Bull made a low rumbling sound in his chest. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

 

Mahanon shrugged a shoulder. "Didn't want to," he said. He sighed. "If I pretend that it's not happening and hide it when it does then I can just go on with things like normal. Bad enough that I'm reminded every day of how I'm failing my clan, I don't need the pity of having other people know. And if word got out, there would be a panic. As it is just by being here I could be spreading it to the whole Inquisition." A couple more coughs decided that now would be a good time to surface, though this time Mahanon didn't try to hold them back. He merely looked aside and tried to ignore how Bull's face creased with concern.

 

"Come on," Bull said, letting his hands drop from Mahanon's shoulders and leading the way into his bathroom. Knowing what he had in mind, Mahanon followed him. The door shut and hot water turned on, the room soon filled with steam. "I don't think you need to worry about it spreading," Bull said as he did so.

 

"How do you figure?" Mahanon asked. "Every illness I know of is spread through contact with someone who has it. Even if it's just breathing the same air. And you and I have shared a lot more than air."

 

"You've been with the Inquisition several months now, and in close contact with me and your other friends and advisers. And we are all fine. You said your Keeper tried all the healing magic and potions she knew and none of it did more than delay the inevitable."

 

Bull sat on the bench in the room and pulled Mahanon into his lap, causing the elf to wince at the contact at first but then settle against him, breathing deep from the steamy air. The warmth helped, he thought, and the steam eased the burning in his chest. Bull's words though triggered a memory of something his keeper had said before he left for the Conclave. "She said her magic skitters away from what she can sense is wrong," he said. "I just assumed that was because she was exhausted; she hadn't slept for days by that point."

 

"You should tell one of our mages," Bull said.

 

"No," Mahanon said firmly. He pushed himself away from Bull's chest to meet his eye. "No one can know. Especially now. It will cause a panic. Please."

 

Bull was silent, staring at Mahanon, then said, "I won't tell anyone for now, while it's not interfering with anything," was all Bull would promise.

 

Mahanon wasn't happy with that but he knew better than to try to push the issue. Instead he leaned back against Bull once more and closed his eyes, resting, and mentally resolved to continue hiding the coughing, even from Bull.

 

"You not being able to breathe properly with your cough. That was what made you say katoh yesterday?" Bull asked after they had sat in silence for several minutes.

 

"Does it bother you? That I couldn't handle it?" Mahanon asked. He was aware that he was dodging the question but what would bother him more would be the thought that he had somehow disappointed Bull or let him down for having that weakness.

 

Bull tightened his grip around Mahanon and said, "Nope. Not at all. You've handled everything else though, so I wondered."

 

"Only just," Mahanon said, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half smile as he thought back to last night.

 

Bull laughed. "Only just is enough," he said.

 

Mahanon sighed and, closing his eyes, rested his head against Bull's shoulder as he tried to gather his thoughts. "You remember back at Haven how I told you about Faerel? How I wasn't able to save him?" Bull grunted in acknowledgement so Mahanon continued. "During the fight the slavers got a rope around my neck, strung me up. I was right on the verge of passing out when they let me down and forced me to watch as they slit Faerel's throat. That's what I saw when breathing became difficult. Faerel's eyes locked on mine and the blood." Mahanon shivered with the memory of it and Bull once more gave him a squeeze, reminding him that he was still there, keeping him grounded in reality. "What do the Qunari do if you're having trouble dealing with crap like that?"

 

"Send you to Saheron till you work out your anger and calm down. Like Gatt," Bull answered. "Failing that, there's always re-education," he said and, with a slight smirk, gave Mahanon's bruised backside a none too gentle tap, causing the elf to squark in a rather undignified manner.

 

"Well, being that my arse has had just about as much re-education as it can handle, I guess that means we should go kill some stuff," Mahanon said.

 

"Works for me, boss," Bull agreed.

 

*

 

And kill some stuff they did. Demons to be precise. "Because when can worshipping a rift that spits out demons ever turn out to be a good thing?" Mahanon complained as his mark snapped the rift inside Winterwatch Keep.

 

They were back in the Hinterlands again, helping to further stabilise the area. It had settled down a lot since the warring mages and templars were brought under control but refugees were still pouring in and needed the help of the Inquisition. Since there were still several weeks until Empress Celene's ball and Josephine was still working on getting their invite, Mahanon had opted for a field trip to help out. And to avoid clothes fittings from the tailor due to arrive at Skyhold any day now.

 

Cullen had also had words with him about acquiring horses for the Inquisition. Every week, Mahanon received a 'Things Requiring the Inquisitor's Attention' list and each time acquiring horses had been included. It had started with Mahanon simply being distracted by more important things at first; recruiting the templars, closing the breach, and dealing with the grey wardens had all had top priority. After that though, Mahanon had started ignoring that point solely to mess with Josephine, to see what kind of oh-so-polite ways she could come up with to get him to do it. The latest report had been written in angry capital letters and had the request underlined several times. That had given Mahanon a chuckle and he thought that was the end of it until Cullen bailed him up to say that she had complained to him about it. Cullen, in turn, had pointed out that without horses their soldiers were at a disadvantage and more would be killed. Like a lightning bolt, Mahanon's fun had been killed with that realization. He still remembered the letter in the Fade and his resolution to treat his soldiers more like individual people and here he was putting said people's lives at risk just to get a rise out of his ambassador. They had set out for the Hinterlands the next day.

 

Master Dennent had agreed to allow the Inquisition to use his horses after Mahanon had complained that they would never live up to the standards he was used to with elven harts. It became a matter of pride for the man to prove the Inquisitor wrong. But the Inquisition also had to complete a ridiculous amount of tasks to ensure the horse's security first. Apparently just sending guards along wasn't good enough. Mahanon decided that they could mark the best locations for watch towers and other members of the Inquisition could complete the rest of the tasks.

 

It was when they arrived back at the Crossroads to send a bird to Skyhold with that update that Bull overheard a conversation of interest. A woman was having trouble breathing and her son was capable of making a potion that helped, only he had run off with some cult. "He may be able to help your clan," Bull pointed out quietly.

 

Mahanon had eagerly agreed, willing to try anything and so their next stop was to visit the rift worshipping cult holed up in Winterwatch Keep. After convincing Anais to get the cult to help the refugees in the area, something that was infinitely more useful than demon worship, Mahanon requested that the others to wait for him in the tavern saying they would spend the night here rather than traipsing over rocky hills in the dark. He, meanwhile, asked around until he found the alchemist son, Hyndel.

 

"Hyndel?" Mahanon asked, approaching the elf who had been pointed out to him.

 

"Yes? Can I help you?" he asked, looking up from the book he was reading.

 

"I spoke to your father yesterday. Your mother, she's very sick, and he said you could make a potion that would help?"

 

"She's sick again? I mean, yes, of course. I can make another potion, I'll make a few if you'd be able to take them to her for me?"

 

Mahanon nodded, then hesitantly asked, "Your potions... do you think...that is, um... I know your mother's illness is that she can't get enough breath but what about coughing? Do you think your potion could help with that?"

 

"Possibly," Hyndel said, seemingly oblivious to Mahanon's nervousness with the question as he started separating the herbs he would need out on his workbench. "I would have to know more though and it would need to be tweaked. What sort of a cough? What triggers it? Does anything come up with it?"

 

"It starts as a tickle which becomes a deep kind of cough if ignored. Phlem comes up with it and, as it gets worse, blood. I don't know what triggers it, cold perhaps? I'm not sure," Mahanon said. He kept his voice low; though he hadn't said anything that would identify the fact that this cough was affecting his clan, he didn't want anyone to overhear anyway.

 

"Sounds serious," Hyndel said, with a concerned glance over to Mahanon.

 

Mahanon gave a single nod and was glad that, so far at least, he had hidden any of his own coughs on the journey, that he hadn't been too bad so didn't look unwell or tired. "Anything you could try would help. We haven't had any success with so far; the most a potion or magic has been able to do is ease some of the symptoms but they always got worse, too bad for things to treat."

 

Hyndel nodded. "If you're willing to wait a week, I'll give you the potion for my mother then start on something that may help your friend. Come back then and I'll have it plus a few spares."

 

Mahanon nodded, not bothering to correct the elf. He waited for Hyndel's mother's potion to be made then sought out his friends.

 

*

 

As far as the others were concerned, the extra potions were ones for Clan Lavellan; Mahanon had been willing to admit to these few people he trusted that two of the three mages the clan had relied on had been killed, one at the conclave and one just prior. So the potions were to help out however he could especially since, if he were still with his clan, he would be using his ranging to gather the ingredients for them anyway.

 

Wandering around the Hinterlands, helping the refugees and closing any fade rifts they came across was soothing to Mahanon. While he was fighting he didn't have to think. He wondered if the Qunari were really on to something with the Qun, with how to deal with crap as, the more days passed and the more he was actually able to help people, whether they were aware of his hand in helping or not, the more he was able to put what happened in the Fade behind him. Nightmares started to bother him less even as his cough started to bother him more.

 

When they returned to Hyndel the elf had made him a bag full of potions. "I've included the recipe as well," he said. "Just in case it works. If it does, please let me know. I... I will be returning to my family soon. They need me more at the moment, so you'll be able to find me there."

 

Back at Skyhold, Mahanon took down a copy of the recipe for himself and tried one of the potions one evening when his coughing was bad in the privacy of his room. It tasted foul and burned all the way down but he was able to take a deep breath afterwards.

 

Smiling, he finished the rest of the potion and wrote down in a letter to his keeper what they were and his hope that they would help. He didn't mention the fact that he was trying them on himself to relieve his own symptoms; if she knew that he too was starting to become ill she would lose all hope that a cure could be found. He couldn't do that to her.

 

The following evening the cough returned again. Mahanon was disappointed but at least the potion continued to relieve the symptoms; it should at least give Keeper Deshana a chance to rest and, for now, he was content with that until he found something more permanent. 


	22. Boots vs Bare Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So it was that the two of them were in the abandoned great hall closer to morning than night, with Krem standing on a chair that was on a table, and Mahanon then balancing on Krem's shoulders wriggling at a dragon tooth in a mounted dragon head."
> 
> \---
> 
> Mahanon lets loose and has some fun before he's sent off to Halamshiral.

"Lavellan!"

 

Mahanon was running, his bare feet splashing through the mud and sending clods of it up the back of his legs and back. Spotting Krem sparring with Bull, he ducked behind the two of them. "Hide me! She's a demon in human form!" he declared.

 

"I know you're there, Lavellan," Josephine said as she stalked after the wayward elf.

 

"Why are we hiding you this time?" Krem asked, glancing back at the elf as he clung to the back of Bull's broad back, circling around him as Josephine tried to grab at him.

 

"She has a stick!" Mahanon declared.

 

Josephine paused in her attempts to catch the elf to sigh dramatically. "It's a training device. You simply must master the dances that will be expected of you before Empress Celene's ball."

 

"It's not a training device, it's a torture device!" Mahanon complained.

 

Krem rose a hand to cover his mouth, trying not to laugh too loud. He was well aware of Mahanon's dislike of pomp and ceremony despite the fact that his role as Inquisitor demanded he partake in a lot of it. He had also noticed that the more he spent time with Bull and the other Chargers, the more relaxed he got about showing his dislike of it all. The humour was even leaking into his official judgements with one of the more recent affairs resulting in an Avaar leader and his followers being 'exiled' to Tevinter fully equipped with weapons and supplies. And that was only after he had stopped laughing long enough to hand that sentence down after being told just what the Avaar had done to deserve sentencing. This madly dodging around Bull, using the Qunari as a big meat shield to avoid dancing lessons was another display of the Inquisitor relaxing and showing more of himself than he ever had at Haven.

 

"I don't know why you're worried, Lavellan," Krem teased. "I'm sure Bull's hit you with worse."

 

Mahanon blushed at that even as Bull let out a guffaw of laughter but still managed to reply, "But that's _fun_! This isn't. I'm sick of lessons I wanna play!" he shouted, doing a fantastic impersonation of a petulant child complete with stomping his bare foot. In a mud puddle. "Bull, you'll play with me right? I like your games!"

 

Bull laughed. "Sure, boss," he said and, turning, he snagged Mahanon by the waist and slung him up over his shoulder. "Right after you master at least three dances to your ambassador's satisfaction."

 

"Noooooooooo!" Mahanon cried, pushing up against Bull's back so he wasn't hanging upside down and kicking his muddy feet in the air. "She'll make me wear shoooooeeeeees!"

 

Krem didn't bother trying to stop the laughter at that and the image of the high and mighty Inquisitor being carried back to the keep over the shoulder of a Qunari mercenary wailing about being forced to wear shoes. He wasn't the only one; the Inquisitor's antics had gathered a bit of a crowd, mostly servants pausing on their way about their duties and a few soldiers training. All of them laughed to see their leader so bested but it was a good natured laugh, a fond one. They had all fallen in love with their unusual leader and he in turn had been spending more time getting to know them since Adamant. It was impossible for him to truly get to know them all the way Bull knew his Chargers, but it was the effort he made to try that counted and it was not unnoticed. It was only after the Inquisitor was taken inside, wailing all the way, that people returned to their duties. Most people anyway. Varric was seen furiously writing notes by the stairs, chuckling to himself and Krem decided that he had to see how this played out since Mahanon had robbed him of his sparring partner.

 

Inside the keep, Krem paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimmed light and looked around. All the tables and benches had been pushed to one side except for a row of benches on the other side that marked where people could walk without getting in the Inquisitor's way. The rest of the hall had couples moving about practising dancing. Mahanon clearly wasn't the only one inflicted with dancing lessons, though he was the only one causing a rackus about it.

 

"If I have to learn the dances so does Bull!" Mahanon was declaring, still looking quite comical with his fists on his hips, hair wild and mud splattered clothes, his face tattoos standing out on his slightly flushed face looking every bit the elven savage some people mistook him for. Krem could see what it was that attracted Bull to him like that. The wild and untamed had always drawn his boss, though normally he kept it to dragons.

 

"I already know them," Bull said.

 

"What?" Mahanon spun around to Bull. "How could you know them?"

 

"I've been to Orlesian balls before. We often worked out of Orlais until recently if you recall? We were mostly guards but I seem to remember that Krem was asked to dance quite a few times," Bull rolled his head to look over his shoulder at Krem with his single eye, a mischievous grin on his face.

 

"Sure," Krem said, sitting back to lean against a table. "Until they actually danced with me and realized how terrible I was at it. Besides, it was always in the male role. Our Inquisitor here will be in that role. I have an idea though. Despite his size, Bull here is an excellent dancer. In both roles. He was the one who taught me the dances. I suggest, if Lady Montilyet is agreeable, we pause the dancing lessons for now so we have time to get a few... props to help set the mood and then Bull can partner with the Inquisitor."

 

Bull's knowing smirk had turned to a suspicious frown. "Props, eh?"

 

Krem rose his eyebrows but said nothing. When Bull had turned back to look at Josephine, turning his blind side to Krem, the man caught Josephine's eye and pretended to curtsy, holding out an imaginary dress, looking pointedly at Bull.

 

The ambassador started laughing before she could stop herself, then rose a hand to lightly cover her mouth. "Ahem. Yes. Well I'm sure that will be fine. Good actually; having two sets of eyes to watch this one will likely be a necessity."

 

"Yes!" Mahanon declared gladly, grinning from ear to ear after having seen Krem's motions and catching on to what Bull's lieutenant had in mind.

 

"And Lavellen will likely be late for his fitting appointment anyway if he's to wash all that mud off first," Josephine added.

 

"What? No!" Mahanon said, the glee instantly wiped from his face. "Can't I just go as I am? I'll wear one of those stupid Orlesian masks and no one will know who I am. I'll hear all sorts of things if everyone assumes I'm just some other knife ear, no one for them to worry about."

 

"Not even the elven servants of Orlais are so unkept," Josephine said, sound shocked that he would even think such a thing. "I really must insist that you make use of your bath, and quickly. Then come to my office so you can get a proper fitting. The dress uniforms are nearly complete and the cobbler has returned with your new boots."

 

"Come on, boss. I can help you wash your back," Bull said.

 

Mahanon's face lit into a mischievous grin. "You'll have to catch me first," he taunted, before dashing off towards the exit.

 

"Krem!"

 

Krem immediately moved to block the exit so Mahanon simply turned a tight circle then ducked under Bull's arms, laughing the whole while. He sprinted down the hall, dodging around shocked couples who were still turning circles practising their dancing. Krem had to admire how fast the little elf could move; Bull was fast, much faster than he looked for someone his size, but Krem would say that Mahanon was faster still. At the last minute he ducked into the room where Solas spent most of his time and Bull bolted in after him. Grinning, unable to resist, Krem followed, though he only stood at the door.

 

"Is this really necessary?" Solas said in a huff as the two of them started circling each other with his work table between them. He was completely ignored by the other two, both grinning and clearly enjoying this game.

 

Looking up, Krem saw that, once again, the Inquisitor's antics had gathered the crowd with people leaning against the railing looking down, watching laughing. He even saw money exchange hands; bets were being made. Even Dorian was watching, though Krem thought he looked a little wistful as he did so. Perhaps he would have a talk to the man later; Bull had started inviting him to join them for dinner instead of always eating alone whenever the Inquisitor was away or busy.

 

"Noooo!"

 

Krem's attention was drawn back to the 'battle' by Mahanon's shout; Bull had caught him finally, though only by the wrist. A wrist Mahanon was doing everything in his power to wriggle out of his grip. He laughed and called out, "You've got a live one there, chief!" reminded of when the Chargers were travelling and would fish for their dinner.

 

"Nothin' I can't handle," Bull declared.

 

"You only wish you could handle this!" Mahanon said, getting his wrist free, running several steps away and then striking a post, fists on hips and chest thrust out.

 

As it turned out, the Inquisitor's arrogance was his downfall as Bull charged at him like his namesake and sweeping him up and over his shoulder once more despite Mahanon's shrieks of protest. "Why do you always put me over your shoulder?" the elf demanded, his hands pressing into Bull's back holding himself partially upright again. He tried to reach for one of Bull's horns but the Qunari absently tilted his head away moving it out of reach.

 

"Because if you squirm too much up here it's a long way to fall," he pointed out as he carried the Inquisitor out of Solas's room and towards the Inquisitor's own room, much to the mirth of those watching. "It's also easy access," he added and landed a none too gentle slap to Mahanon's arse with his bare hand. The yelp that caused was a lot louder than Krem would have thought the tap warranted but that only made him smirk at what it meant.

 

"I'll expect you to have mastered that move I showed you by the time we're done, Krem," Bull called out over his shoulder.

 

"Aye aye, Chief," Krem said as he took his own leave. Not to practice, though, but to plan.

 

*

 

Mahanon was carried rather ungracefully up to his room then let down once up the stairs. "You go back down those stairs before you're cleaned up and the next place I bend you over will be in the war room on Cullen's favourite maps," he threatened.

 

"You wouldn't dare," Mahanon challenged.

 

"Care to try me?" Bull said, raising an eyebrow.

 

Mahanon thought about it, then sighed dramatically and leaned against the rail, crossing his arms. "Fiiiine," he complained. The truth was he didn't doubt that Bull would carry out his threat. Oh he wouldn't do so while others were around; he had already promised him that he would still be treated as his boss in public (though how that transferred to being carried over his shoulder as he had just now, Mahanon didn't know). He would still do so and the war room didn't have the advantage of being several floors up so any sounds made would carry.

 

"Good boy," Bull murmured and he leaned in for a kiss.

 

"Will you at least make it worth my while if I do what you say and let them poke and prod me with pins?" he asked, a teasing smile about his lips.

 

"Later. And only if you leave all but your belt knife up here."

 

Mahanon sighed dramatically as he followed Bull into the bathroom. "Party pooper," he complained. Bull truly knew him too well; he had most definitely been planning on strapping as many knives and hidden daggers to his body as he could, far more than what would actually be practical, just to make the tailor nervous and start to stutter as he was forced to remove them and put them all in a pile for his actual fitting. Oh well, there was always next time. Josephine had said that the clothes were _nearly_ ready which meant that there would be at least one final fitting when they actually were finished.

 

"You're in a good mood today," Bull commented as Mahanon stripped off his muddy clothes and stepped into the steaming water, sighing as it rose over his body.

 

"I guess I am," he admitted, leaning back against the side of the tub with his eyes closed. "Maybe you Qunari are on to something with your re-education and fighting to deal with shit." He paused. "I also won two hundred gold from Varric at Wicked Grace last night," he added with a smug grin.

 

Bull laughed. "Since when have you been able to control your face enough to fool that swindler?"

 

"I dunno. Since I started seeing this Qunari spy I guess I've picked up a few things," he said, tilting his head back with a coy smile on his lips.

 

"Did he actually pay you the money?" Bull asked. His hands rested on Mahanon's shoulders and pushed slightly, moving the elf forward so that he could get at his back.

 

"He said he would have to pay me back." Mahanon laughed. "I think he's hoping he'll win it back and not have to pay me. I don't really care though, it was fun just to get him like that."

 

"I bet," Bull said. "So how did you _really_ win?"

 

"Grim taught me to cheat."

 

Bull gave a deep belly laugh at that and Mahanon smiled. He had originally been planning to use his new tricks against Bull and the rest of the Chargers next time they played but when Varric had challenged him to a game the opportunity was too good to resist.

 

They lapsed into a comfortable silence then as Bull gently washed his back and then the rest of him. Ducking his head under the water, Mahanon washed out the suds, then came up again.

 

"You know Krem is making you a dress," he said.

 

"No he's not," Bull said, his tone confident but indulging.

 

"He is. He was a tailor in Tevinter right? He's making you a dress and you're gonna have to wear it to teach me how to dance."

 

"He wouldn't dare," Bull growled, but Mahanon thought he sounded uncertain that time.

 

Mahanon just smiled and said nothing; let him wonder. This was even more fun than beating Varric at Wicked Grace.

 

*

 

Mahanon balanced precariously on Krem's shoulders in Skyhold's great hall. This was, perhaps, one of his least planned antics but he was committed now and there was no way he was going back without his prize. He _may_ have had a little bit to drink tonight helping Krem complete their little project. All right, there was no may, he was _definitely_ drunk. While Mahanon had never sewn anything more than repairing tears in his clothes or worn leather armour straps, he could follow direction well enough and Krem had needed an extra pair of hands. They had decided to go for a pink dress after Mahanon had told Krem of a conversation he had overheard between Bull and Blackwall where the big Qunari had admired the dawnstone, saying it was pretty.

 

Between the two of them, they had gone through three bottles of wine, laughing and frantically hiding their work whenever someone entered the barracks where the Chargers slept. Were it not for his slight accent and some of the stories he told, Mahanon would have even forgotten that Krem originally came from Tevinter. Somehow, because he didn't constantly bring it up the way Dorian did, Mahanon didn't mind it so much. And besides, to him Krem wasn't Tevene since he had abandoned the home country that had tried to kill him just for trying to be who he was.

 

As the evening wore on and more and more alcohol was consumed they of course started talking about Bull and Mahanon's relationship. And Mahanon had been forced to admit that neither of them had said The Big Three Words. It may have started out as just sex and stress relief but it had morphed into something more; it was rare that Mahanon ever spent the night alone now and even though the sex and play was a regular occurrence, he was just as content to sleep beside Bull.

 

"Has he told you about the dragon necklace thing yet?" Krem had asked, his words slurring only a little.

 

"Yup," Mahanon had replied before hiccuping a little. "I wanna make him one but we never have time to go dragon hunting any more."

 

"What about the one in the great hall? That you killed in the Hinterlands?'

 

Mahanon instantly perked up. "I had forgotten about that one!" he exclaimed. "I'm gonna go get it."

 

So it was that the two of them were in the abandoned great hall closer to morning than night, with Krem standing on a chair that was on a table, and Mahanon then balancing on Krem's shoulders wriggling at a dragon tooth in a mounted dragon head.

 

"Almost got it..." Mahanon said as he felt it begin to give a little.

 

"What on earth are you pair doing?"

 

"Shit!" Mahanon swore at the sound of Vivienne's imperious voice, startling him enough to make him lose his balance. Krem toppled backwards off the chair, missing the table and onto his backside which left Mahanon hanging by the mounted dragon head several feet above the ground. Feeling the tooth give, Mahanon let out a triumphant "Ha!" before it clicked what that would actually mean and he fell down as well. He had the presence of mind to try to manoeuvre himself not to land on top of Krem but that only got him landing awkwardly on his ankle and pain shot up it.

 

"Move!" Krem shouted and he grabbed Mahanon's arm to pull him away as the dragon head, loosed by their efforts, came smashing down after them to land with a crash right where they had been sitting.

 

The two of them stared at it open mouthed for several seconds before Vivienne started shouting something, Mahanon didn't even recognise what. "Run!" he shouted as he surged to his feet with a laugh and half ran half limped out the great hall into the dawning light outside. It was snowing and had been for several hours, the tracks they had left in it as they entered the great hall already obscured.

 

Krem took Mahanon's arm and held it over his shoulder to help Mahanon down the stairs but, drunk and off balance, both of them fell into the snow drifts at the bottom. The snow cushioned that fall at least and the pair of them lay there laughing.

 

"She wont... get you in trouble will she?" Krem asked sitting up once their giggles had subsided.

 

Mahanon waved the concern off. "Na, Vivienne's all about appearances. She would be mortified if word got out that the Inquisitor had caused such a rackus." He giggled again and made to stand before sitting back down heavily as pain shot through his ankle. "Owwww," he complained, rubbing it.

 

"Lemme look," Krem said and, leaning back on his hands, Mahanon stuck his sore foot out towards him. Always barefoot, Mahanon's toes had turned pink in the snow but so had his ankle which was starting to swell. Krem grunted a little seeing it and put it down in the snow, heaping some over it. Mahanon let Krem do as he pleased as he stared up at the grey sky, watching the white flakes tumble down. It was beautiful, he thought.

 

What wasn't beautiful was that dreaded tickle in his throat coming up. "I should go inside, go to bed," he said, wanting to get alone before he couldn't hold it back any more.

 

"Not yet," Krem said. "This needs to be strapped. You should sleep in my room tonight, rather than go up all those stairs to yours."

 

"No, I-" Mahanon tried, but he was cut off.

 

"Come on. Let's get inside where it's warm," Krem said. He stood and held a hand out to Mahanon. Not knowing any way he could excuse himself without letting on that something was wrong, Mahanon took the offered hand and stood, keeping his weight off his sore ankle.With his arm over Krem's shoulders once more, the two of them made their slow way across the yard to the barracks the Chargers had claimed. Mahanon only made it about half way there before he could hold back the coughing no longer. Krem though only glanced at him, tightened his grip and moved faster.

 

Entering the dim barracks, he was led to Krem's bunk and sat down. Inside he tried to keep the coughs as quiet as he could - the others were all asleep around them - but he couldn't stop them entirely.

 

"Wait here," Krem said. "I'll go get what we need and be back."

 

Mahanon nodded and, after Krem had left, he took hold of the pillow and held it tight against his face. With that there he was able to make the deep coughs he felt he needed to without being so loud that he would wake everyone around him.

 

When Krem came back he was still clutching at the pillow, though his eyes widened to see what looked like one of Hyndel's potions in his hand.

 

"Here," Krem said, handing that over first.

 

Face flushed with shame, Mahanon took the potion and, forcing some control to his coughing, managed to stop long enough to down it. He closed his eyes as he felt it work, felt the burning pain in his chest ease and the constriction of his throat release.

 

Feeling gentle fingers on his foot, poking a little at his ankle, Mahanon opened his eyes and watched as Krem matter-of-factly held his foot in the position he needed it and began to strap the ankle. "The Chief has started to keep a supply of them in his room," Krem said as he worked. "Don't worry, no one else knows. I figured out something was up though when he started talking to a lot of healers and alchemists. Thought he was asking for himself at first so I confronted him about it, demanded to know what was going on. He swore me to secrecy then told me how you were sick, that you were both trying to find a cure before any word got out. When I heard you coughing just now, wheezing and unable to get your breath, I figured that's what it was." Krem tied off the bandage and, still kneeling on the ground, looked up. "I swear to you, Mahanon. I will tell no one without your permission. Not even any of the Chargers, though I know they would also defend your secret if they had to."

 

Mahanon nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice still a little hoarse. "Does Bull know? About you getting the potion from him?"

 

Krem gave a nod. "Had to ask him where it was. Sorry. He wanted to come straight away but I got him to stay there, told him I would handle it and if it didn't work I would get him." He smiled. "Good thing I don't need to, huh?" Mahanon smiled and nodded, equally relieved about that at least. He didn't mind Bull knowing, of course, but it was more that he didn't want to needlessly worry him.

 

"You still got the tooth?" Krem asked with a small smile. Mahanon grinned and opened his clenched hand, revealing the fang. "I'll put it with the dress. You lay down and I'll join you soon."

 

Mahanon nodded, handed the tooth over, then went to lay down, pausing when he caught sight of a blemish on the pillow case. There was phlegm there from his coughing, but it was slightly tinged pink. Mahanon felt his heart race and his stomach drop seeing that and he stared at it for several seconds before he tore the pillow case off and scrunched it into a ball, tossing it down beside the bed for him to take out in the morning. For now, he just lay down and closed his eyes. Soon he felt Krem climb into the bed behind him and his warmth was a comfort as sleep claimed him.

 

*

 

"Did you have something to do with it?"

 

Mahanon turned to look at Bull and rose his eyebrows as though surprised, putting on his best innocent look. "Me? How would I get up so high?" he pointed out.

 

"I _know_ you and Krem were up to something last night."

 

Mahanon grinned, remembering. "We were just drinking and having fun."

 

"And in the evening?"

 

His smile faltered at that, remembering. He had taken the pillow case and instead decided to burn it lest any of the servants see and wonder; it would be replaced anyway as soon as it was noticed it was missing. "Yes well. I just had more to drink than I should have and spent too long outside without noticing how cold it was. That's all, nothing to worry about," he said. He knew he was lying to Bull again but really, why worry him needlessly? There was nothing that could be done that they weren't already doing. "I've got this now," he said, indicating a flask he had at his hip. He had transferred some of Hyndel's potion from the bottles they came in to the flask so if he was caught out again he could just take a swig from it and have no one the wiser.

 

Bull gave a grunt but left it at that.

 

*

 

Three days later both the dress and the necklaces were finished and Mahanon's ankle had mostly healed. Mahanon had asked Harrit to make the necklaces since Dagna, while brilliant, didn't quite have the fine touch that would be needed to cleanly split the tooth and mount it. Mahanon admired his work with a broad grin. Harrit had even managed to mix alloys with the silver and dawnstone so that for the most part the chain and clasp looked silver but when the light hit it just right it had a pink sheen.

 

Mahanon put them into a cloth bag and was heading up to his room to put them away when he saw Krem entering with Bull trailing behind, the Qunari watching his lieutenant with a narrowed suspicious eye. "Inquisitor!" Krem called out, seeing him and waved him over.

 

"Did I hear Cremisius?" Josephine stuck her head around the door frame and smiled seeing him there with Bull and a rather suspicious package tucked under his arm.

 

Josephine and Mahanon exchanged grins as they hurried over. "Finally, we can get started and make up for lost time," Josie said.

 

Mahanon's grin dipped a little at that but then reminded himself how much easier it would be to learn the stupid dances if he was able to laugh at Bull in a dress.

 

"All right, out with it, what's the big reveal about this prop," Bull said.

 

Mahanon hurried to Krem's side and helped him pull the bag away and the pair of them held up the dress that tumbled out, both grinning widely.

 

"I thought you were joking!" Bull growled at Mahanon.

 

"You told him?" Krem demanded.

 

"He chose not to believe me. Maybe next time he'll listen when his 'boss' tries to tell him something," Mahanon teased. "Come now, I seem to remember you telling me I had to 'look pretty' right before they threw the role of Inquisitor at me. Now it's your turn."

 

"I'm not wearing that."

 

"Come on, Chief! We worked hard on that! It's your size and everything."

 

"Give it to someone else."

 

"Who in Skyhold, or even beyond Skyhold would this fit besides you? Come on, it's pretty, it'll look good on you," Krem continued.

 

"If you don't wear it I don't think I should bother with the dancing lessons then. Let the Orlesians see me for a savage knife-ear if that's what they want," Mahanon added, doing his best to look serious and threatening instead of laughing.

 

"Fine by me," Bull said, completely unmoved.

 

" _Not_ fine by me," Josephine cut in. "Monsieur Bull, if it takes you in a pretty dress to get the Inquisitor to dance then that's what you will do. Or I will have to rely on my training device again."

 

Bull looked as though he were going to refuse again, so Mahanon spoke up. "Please?" he said, opening his eyelids wide and looking up at the Qunari with his best pleading look. "You don't want me subjected to that again do you? Please?"

 

Bull almost seemed to melt looking down at Mahanon and then, with a frustrated growl, he snatched the dress from Krem with a snapped, "Fine!" Then in a muttered undertone, "Damn elf with his big elfy eyes." Mahanon just grinned feeling rather proud of himself. "Krem, you made the damn dress, you can help get it over my horns."

 

"No problem, Chief!" Krem said, shooting a huge grin to Mahanon as he followed Bull towards the Inquisitor's rooms.

 

Bull had almost reached the doorway before he froze and then spun around. "This is what the two of you were being so secretive about! When you both got drunk! The night the dragon head fell off the wall!"

 

Mahanon laughed and said very proudly, "Yup!"

 

That set off another round of growling and muttering from the Qunari but Krem, also laughing, pushed him towards the door and the two of them disappeared up there.

 

"Perhaps we should not worry about the ball and The Game at all, and just send you with your puppy eyes to beg Empress Celene to make peace and her assassin to back down," Josephine said contemplatively, a twinkle in her eye as she looked at Mahanon.

 

"Oh please? That way I don't have to dance, _or_ wear shoes!"

 

"Oh no. Shoes are not negotiable!"

 

Mahanon let out a dramatic sigh, then sat on one of the nearby benches to wait for Bull and Krem to return. He didn't have to wait too long; Krem had already thought of Bull's horns and made the neck of it wide enough to go over them.

 

"The big boof-head likes it," Krem said, announcing his presence as he led the way downstairs.

 

Sure enough, Bull was grinning as he followed, or rather skipped behind Krem. "It's light and airy," he said as he reached the centre of the great hall. He started twisting his hips this way and that, spinning the skirt out. "And I feel pretty!" That was enough to send Mahanon into hysterics. "I should wear this the next time we have to kill something, there's so much skirt the enemy wont be able to see what my legs are doing and it's so light it's like no armour at all!"

 

"What have we done," Krem muttered. "No, Chief. Just... no."

 

Mahanon wanted to reply, he really did, but he couldn't get his breath from laughing so hard. The next thing he knew, hands had grabbed him by the waist, picked him up and spun him around in a circle before planting him firmly on his feet.

 

"Come on now boss, get with it!" Bull said, grinning widely as he took one of Mahanon's hands in his own and firmly placed the other on his waist. From there he started moving about the room, loudly counting "One, two three. One, two three. You have to lead, I'm a pretty little lady, I don't lead. One, two three."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this chapter, hope you all enjoyed it! Mahanon deserves some light fun.


	23. Kadan and Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make a few more tweaks to the scenes in the game in this chapter. This time it's not cause I don't like the scene (I love it) but cause it just started to happen that way so I carried on with it.

Mahanon sat on a low couch under the window in Halamshiral, playing his violin softly to himself as he looked out over the sunset setting the whites and golds of the palace and its grounds alight. Bull and Krem were in the room as well but they were at the other end talking strategy and what Bull wanted Krem to look out for. He had decided to bring his instrument along with him on a whim and, while he didn't like performing for people, its music had been a welcome addition while they were travelling. Mahanon could almost pretend it were a group of hunters from his clan he was travelling with. At least until they arrived at Halamshiral and he had been forced to put on the dress uniforms and tight boots that had been made for him.

He had to admit that rooms were nice though. As the Inquisitor and his party, they had been given a suit of rooms at the palace and allowed a small contingent of guards. These rooms were beautiful, even far exceeding Mahanon's rooms in Skyhold, but for all that he didn't feel safe here. It was as though all this beauty just concealed something rotten underneath and The Game was a manifestation of that rottenness.

"You like that instrument, don't you?"

Mahanon looked up to see Cullen standing nearby looking down at where Mahanon was sitting. The elf smiled and nodded, setting his instrument down in the lap. "There's a shem instrument I like better, a cello. I heard it visiting a tavern once. But it was far too big and bulky to take on hunting expeditions."

Cullen gave a short laugh. "I can imagine. Truth be told, I thought you would be out exploring the palace while you have the chance."

"I figured quite the opposite," Mahanon said. "A quiet night in while I have the chance." The fact of the matter was Bull had caught him fighting to suppress some coughing so had 'strongly suggested' he stay in tonight. Not that Mahanon was complaining, he was quite apprehensive about the whole affair that was awaiting them tomorrow. Yes he had mastered the dances he was required and, while bare foot at the moment, had his shoes resting on the floor beside him ready to wear. He was even fully schooled in food etiquette and how to bow correctly. He still had to work on not swearing as much. Bull had 'helped' him with that. He had set Mahanon a challenge - he wasn't to swear for the whole week up until they left Skyhold and every time he let slip would earn him three cane strikes on an already warmed up behind. Mahanon, thinking himself so smart, had thought that so long as Bull wasn't around he wouldn't find out. After all, the deal was made in private, no one could find out about it. Mahanon was now the proud owner of twenty-seven horizontal bruises that had only just faded enough to let sitting be bearable so long as it wasn't for too long. For all that it was a lot and when Mahanon heard the total he had tried to run, Bull hadn't used as much force as he had after Adamant. Afterwards, when Mahanon had pointed that out to him, Bull had said that it was a balance to bring him right to the edge without pushing him past it and causing him to say Katoh. Mahanon was forced to admit that keeping that balance was something Bull excelled at. Horse riding had been an added torture and he had been silent for most of the journey here.

Now though, he would rather saviour the normalcy while he could. "We're going to have a game of Wicked Grace later tonight, you should join us," he invited.

"Why not? Varric isn't here to steal my money this time," Cullen agreed. "I'll find us some wine to drink as well," he added before taking his leave.

Bull, hearing the conversation, waited until Cullen had left before pointing out, "You didn't tell him it was strip wicked grace." Mahanon just grinned, causing Bull to chuckle. "You are an evil man, Mahanon."

 

*

 

That evening their Wicked Grace group consisted of Bull, Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, Leliana, and Mahanon. Vivienne had been invited as well but she turned them down, opting instead to catch up with friends. Truth be told, Mahanon didn't mind; he had only really invited Vivienne along to Hallamshiral because he thought her court experience would be useful. Krem had also said no and at first Mahanon had tried to pressure him to change his mind till Krem pointed out that it would only get uncomfortable if he started to lose. After that Mahanon let it go.

They started out with normal Wicked Grace, just with the drinks flowing, getting everyone comfortable. Well, nearly everyone.

"Must you wear that ridiculous dress?" Cullen demanded as Bull strutted into the room proudly wearing his new pink dress. It had gotten quite the workout since he decided he actually liked the thing and, to Josephine's and Vivienne's mortification but Mahanon's unending amusement, he had even worn it one day while they were travelling.

"I like it, it's pretty," Bull stubbornly declared.

 

*

 

Bull glanced over at Mahanon who was shouting rather loudly, his words slurring as he declared his victory and gathered the coins. He was by far the drunkest of the lot of them though Bull had seen him surreptitiously sipping on the flask at his hip as well. If anyone else noticed they didn't mention it, but Bull had no doubt that it was the alcohol mixed with whatever was in that potion that was making the elf more drunk than normal.

Seeing him swaying a little, Bull reached over and snagged the elf by the waist. "Come 'ere," he growled and he pulled him onto his lap, settling him to sit on the bench between his legs.

Mahanon didn't resist but he did glare up at Bull. "You'll cheat!" he accused.

"And you'll fall over," Bull pointed out, causing giggles from Leliana and a snort from Cullen. By now everyone had heard of the antics the Inquisitor had pulled in trying to avoid dancing lessons so Bull pulling a drunk Mahanon onto his lap wasn't a huge surprise to anyone.

"I got a better idea," Bull said. "Strip Wicked Grace! If you win you get to specify a piece of clothing for the loser to lose."

"I'm out," Cullen immediately said.

"Oh, I don't know. It could be fun," Josephine said. Bull shot a wink (or a blink) in her direction and that got the ambassador all flustered.

"Oh I'm in," Leliana immediately said.

After a little hesitation Cassandra also agreed. "Come on, Cullen, you're letting the team down," Bull said.

"Is Lavellan?" the Commander asked.

Mahanon looked up at the sound of his name, then reached down and started going to pull his shirt off. The people gathered started laughing and Bull reached down to hold his hands down. "I think someone has had enough to drink tonight. Krem!" Bull called out. His lieutenant appeared in the doorway. "Would you be able to find some coffee for our Inquisitor? It seems he's rather over-indulged."

Krem smirked and with a nod left to find the requested beverage. "So how about it Cullen? You don't really want to miss out on all this fun do you?" Bull tried again.

"Come on, it'll be the last time we can relax before we have to be completely on show all the time," Josephine added.

With a sigh, Cullen said, "Oh all right then."

Krem arrived with the mug of coffee then just as Mahanon reached for his drink once more. Krem swiped it from him before he could take it and replaced it with the mug of coffee instead. "Here, drink this, it tastes better anyway," he said, taking the alcohol for himself as he left the room once more.

Mahanon didn't seem to mind though as he sipped the coffee and hummed, leaning back contentedly against Bull's chest. "We should send some coffee to Keeper Deshana," he said as Leliana gathered the cards and shuffled them. "She would like coffee I think. Leliana you should send her some next time you write to her."

Leliana paused in her shuffling, looking surprised at that - Bull had heard about the Inquisitor's spat with her about communicating with his keeper - but she said, "I'm sure that can be arranged."

"I think I'll go get us all some coffee," Cassandra volunteered.

"You're just afraid you'll lose," Leliana teased.

"I am not!" Cassandra asserted, though the pink colouring her cheeks said otherwise. "I just don't think it will be a good idea if we're all hung over in the morning, is all."

"As much as I think our dear seeker just wants to get out of playing, I am inclined to agree with her about the coffee," Josephine said.

Without waiting for anyone else to comment, Cassandra turned on her heel and strode from the room. Bull, however, had seen how she had been watching the two of them and he thought that, despite Mahanon's best efforts she was still a bit jealous of their relationship. Oh well, nothing could be done about that; Mahanon had told Bull once that he had never actually been attracted to women, how he was going to be forced to pair with someone in his clan if he had stayed and he hadn't been looking forward to it, for both himself and whatever woman unlucky enough to be paired with him.

The cards were then dealt and Mahanon seemed content to just sit against Bull and enjoy his coffee while the others played. Leliana and Josephine were enjoying themselves and even Cullen was, kind of. He was playing a lot more cautious now that clothes were the bet instead of money; damn templar was so modest. Time to step things up.

"All right!" Bull said slapping his hand down on the table. If he had read the game well enough then he likely will have lost that round and either Josephine or Leliana would win. And sure enough.

With a gloating laugh, Josephine tossed her cards down, with a "I believe I have just won!"

"So it seems," Bull said. "And it also seems I have only one item of clothing."

"Well come on then, off with it!" Leliana encouraged.

"Right boss, time to move over," Bull said.

Mahanon was unresisting as Bull lifted him up over his leg and onto the bench beside him. Standing, Bull carefully undid the laces so there was enough room to get the neck over his horns and pulled it off. Holding it in his hands he gazed at it longingly, then sighed and held it out to Josephine.

Who was ignoring it.

In fact everyone was ignoring it in favour of staring at Bull who was now standing before them completely naked as though it were the most normal thing in the world. All except Mahanon who was still sipping his coffee completely unphased.

"This doesn't count as the battlements," the Inquisitor said, not looking up.

Bull guffawed at that; truth be told he had forgotten about his promise to walk the battlements after Adamant - waking up to find his kadan coughing and struggling to breathe would do that - but clearly Mahanon had not.

He rested a hand on Mahanon's shoulder, patting it twice, then turned his attention to the others still staring at him. "Oh yeah, take it all in," he said, tossing the dress to Josephine who caught it absently, and resting his hands on his hips, posing proudly.

"I... I can't look away," Josephine said, her eyes glued to Bull's form.

"You would... why..." Cullen stuttered, though he was determinedly _not_ looking at him.

Leliana had, perhaps, more self control than any of them. Her eyes widened and a grin crept over her face which she quickly hid behind a hand with a giggle.

"Is something the matter -oh!" _Crash_.

"Oh for fuck's sake. That was good coffee!" Bull complained as Cassandra entered and promptly dropped the tray of coffee she had been carrying.

"Do you see this?" Cassandra said, rounding on Cullen.

"No!" Cullen said stubbornly, still looking anywhere but at Bull.

"So, I take it..." Cassandra said, slowly turning back to Bull.

"Actually, _he's_ the one who's been taking it," Bull cut in.

Cullen snorted at that and that made Bull grin; who would have thought the commander would enjoy dirty jokes like that?

"Perhaps we should end the game there. And go get some more coffee?" Leliana suggested.

"We'll leave you two be then," Cullen said.

"Yes. Do enjoy yourselves," Josephine said as they all stood and took their leave.

"You killed the party," Mahanon complained as he finished his coffee.

"It was dying anyway," Bull said. "You ok boss? You didn't mind?"

"No," Mahanon said. "Though I believe you may have blinded poor Cullen."

Bull smiled and shook his head. No, if he had blinded anyone it would have been Cassandra; if there had ever been any doubt in her mind as to what was between him and the Inquisitor it would now be entirely put to rest.

"But since we have a moment," Mahanon said as he stood and moved over to where his pack was sitting against a wall. Bull watched as he walked, yes admiring, but also noticing how he didn't sway or waver, seeming to be completely sober now. 

"You were just pretending to be that drunk, weren't you?" The grin Mahanon shot over his shoulder confirmed it. Bull gave a bark of laughter. "For a savage little elf, you're getting good at the deception."

"I thought it might encourage the others to unwind some more if they saw that their Inquisitor was relaxing and enjoying himself," he said. Bull stood and moved over to the couch; much more comfortable than the wooden bench!

Mahanon stood as well and walked over, carrying something wrapped in an oiled cloth.

"What's that?" Bull asked.

The cloth was pulled away as Mahanon spoke. "A dragon's tooth, split in two. So that no matter how far apart life takes us, we're always together."

Bull felt his heart swell and the heat he felt in his remaining eye was most definitely _not_ tears! "Not often people surprise me, Kadan," he said softly.

"Kadan?" Mahanon asked.

Bull smiled, realising he had never translated the word. "Kadan. My heart," he said, reaching up and cupping Mahanon's face, drawing him to lay back on the couch.

"Kadan," Mahanon repeated; always a quick learner. In language and _other_ areas, Bull thought as he leaned in to kiss him.

 

*

 

The following morning saw Mahanon up bright and early. They were both wearing their dragon tooth necklaces and, though around Bull's neck, resting against his broad chest it looked good, it was almost comical against Mahanon's and clashed with the dress uniforms Leliana and Josephine had designed. Josephine had tried to get him to remove it but Mahnaon had refused, eventually declaring that it was either wear the necklace or not wear shoes knowing full well that that would cause the ambassador to relent with a, "Well I suppose it does add a certain savagery to you."

Now though, he was standing fully dressed in front of a mirror, pinching boots and all, trying to get his hair to lay mostly flat.

"Last chance," Bull said from where he sat watching. "You sure you want me to go in there with you? A Qunari isn't exactly going to fit in at a human ball," Bull pointed out.

"And an elf is?" Mahanon countered.

"You're the Inquisitor. People don't see your race any more, just your title."

"You are, or were, ben hassrath. I need your observation and attention to detail. I need _you_ there," Mahanon said earnestly, turning to face him.

Bull smiled that slow, loving smile of his and pulled Mahanon close. "Well, all right then. I'll be there."

 

*

 

Mahanon leaned against the railing, looking out over the courtyard. He was tired, more tired than he thought he could be after a ball and he hadn't managed to try any of that punch at all. Of course, he hadn't really expected to have to fight so many Venatori here either.

"They ran out of cheese dip." Mahanon looked down and smiled to himself, hearing Bull approach with that comment. "Asked for more and they gave me this... look. The assholes." Mahanon gave a snort at that. They had certainly given the Orlesians plenty to talk about: an elven Inquisitor, complete with braided hair and face tattoos, and a 'tamed' qunari companion. Mahanon had almost given his eavesdropping position away when he overheard some of the guests call Bull tamed; how would they react if they knew that it was Bull who tamed the elf, not the other way around?

Bull leaned against the railing next to him. "How you doing?"

Mahanon sighed. "It's been a long day," he said. It had also been hard to sneak away for the few minutes needed to hide coughing fits. That need was really getting old, Mahanon thought to himself.

"Least we got to the end of it alive. That's more than some can say," Bull pointed out. Mahanon nodded in agreement; he had never really taken Josephine's warnings about how deadly the so-called game could be but all her predictions had proven true. It only made him long for the quiet of the Lavellan camp though, where the only politics were generally settled by the Keeper or in other, less deadly ways. "Cullen's giving orders now," Bull continued. "We're just about good here."

"Thank the creators for that. I've had just about enough of Orlais. I don't know how you could stand it working out of here so often," Mahanon said.

"The pay was good. And I like their food. They've got these candied nuts with some kind of spice on them. It's sweet until you swallow, and then, bam, hot!"

"I'll see if we can get some for Skyhold," Mahanon said with a smile.

Bull pushed away from the balcony. "Come on," he said. "The music's finally got enough of a beat to dance to," and he held out his arm.

"Only for you," Mahanon said.

"Good. They're out of food."

Mahanon laughed as he was led away from the railing so they had some room. "So romantic," Mahanon complained. "You know, it's just not the same without your pretty dress," he teased.

"Oh don't worry. We'll get it back," Bull promised.

Mahanon took a sip from his flask then rested one hand on Bull's hip, the other in his hand. Bull chuckled and with a tug, pulled Mahanon flush against him instead causing him to squeak a little. The hand that had been on Bull's waist was now on his chest and Mahanon looked up accusingly. "You did that on purpose," he accused.

"You're complaining?"

Mahanon sighed and rested his cheek against Bull's chest as he was led in a slow circle. "Only a little," he answered.

In silence, they held each other and turned circles on the balcony. They were in time with the music but neither of them really seemed to be paying attention to that. He caught sight of Krem by the balcony doorway, effectively barring the way for anyone who sought to have a word with the Inquisitor before he left, giving them their privacy. And there were plenty of people there wanting to, though seeing him dancing with the Qunari caused more than a few titters behind fans. Nonetheless, none of them reached the two of them out here, which was likely Krem's intent in barring the way. Mahanon would have to remember to find a way to thank him later.

Slowly he felt the tension held between his shoulder-blades begin to release. It amazed him how just being around Bull could do that. Their play could too, but this seemed different somehow and, strangely, more intimate even though he realized that didn't make much sense.

"Boss?"

"Hmm?"

"You're thinking too much."

Mahanon laughed. "Maybe you just give me a lot to think about."

"Hmm," Bull said and, leaning down, he captured Mahanon's mouth in a kiss.

Breaking away Mahanon smiled and said, "That'll work."

"Good," and he kissed him again.


	24. Fall and Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon enjoys skating down hills until he has an oops, and he and Cullen have a heart to heart.

Mahanon's feet slipped and slid over the loose stones and dirt as he skidded down the hill. Reaching the grassy bottom, he took a few steps to halt his movement and looked back up the hill. A constant stream of curses behind and to his right announced Bull attempting to follow the same way, though a lot less gracefully. Cassandra, Varric, and Sera were slowly picking their way down to meet him while he grinned up at them.

"I really wish you would stop doing that," Cassandra complained once she was in earshot.

"It's faster," Mahanon pointed out.

"It's dangerous," Cassandra argued.

"Since when is something we're doing not dangerous?"

Cassandra gave a grunt at that. "Well there's no need to take on more danger than necessary."

"You're just jealous cause I can do it and you can't."

"I..."

Mahanon laughed. "Relax, Cassandra," he turned to lead the way off again. "I've been doing this since I first started following our clan's hunters. It was a quick way to get the heavily armoured shems off our tails."

"How that doesn't rip the skin right off your feet, I'll never know," Varric said.

Grinning, Mahanon made as though to do a side kick at the dwarf, stopping short of course, but clearly showing the underside of his feet. "Nothing but leather," he said proudly before lowing said foot again and continuing walking. "No one in our clan wore shoes, shoes are a shem thing. And a dwarven I guess." A glance at Bull. "And Qunari.... ok not wearing shoes is an elven thing," he amended.

Sera gave a snort. "I think not wearing shoes is an Inquisitor thing. People wear shoes. You're the only one who doesn't."

"Solas doesn't," Mahanon pointed out.

"But he's weird, yeah?"

"True enough," Mahanon agreed.

The four of them were on the Storm Coast again, this time because of reports of red lyrium growing in the area. Since Varric seemed to have a special hatred of the stuff, Mahanon decided to bring him along. Halamshiral had technically been a success, though how many weeks the peace there would last he could probably count on one hand. Before he could be bombarded with other things that needed his attention, he had decided to leave Skyhold on this little expedition.

Looking up ahead, Mahanon paused and his eyes lit up. "Ooh look at that one!" he said, eyeing off the huge hill in front of him. Immediately he started to run up it, knowing that upon reaching the crest there was sure to be a fantastic drop for him to slide down.

"Lavellan, don't!" Cassandra said.

"Try to stop me!" Mahanon called out, running backwards up the hill to see if anyone would jump to his challenge.

Cassandra looked pointedly at Bull who just threw his hands up in a shrug and said, "You really think I would be able to catch him running up that hill?"

Laughing, knowing his biggest threat had just declared defeat without even trying, he turned on his heel and nearly sprinted up the hill. Reaching the top he looked down, an expression of wonder on his face. The drop was a lot steeper and longer than any he had tried before. As the others reached the top next to him, Mahanon looked to Bull with a huge foolish grin on his face.

"Uh uh, no way boss. You're on your own with that one," Bull said, shaking his head.

"Your loss!" Mahanon declared and, before anyone could stop him, he set off with a run and a jump down the hill. The wind whipped his hair in his eyes, stinging, but that was nothing he wasn't used to as he slid downwards, his feet tilting and twisting almost instinctively to avoid any big rocks or branches that would actually injure him. Faster and faster he flew and with his arms spread out it was almost as though he were one of the birds soaring overhead.

Too late he saw the sudden drop that had blended in with the grey rock around it and before he could attempt to halt himself he was flung off the ledge.

"Oh shiiiiiiiiit!" he shouted as he flew through the air this time and came crashing down, painfully jarring the leg he had broken and going tumbling forward. Rolling uncontrollably down the hill, he struck boulders and branches, crying out as he felt something slam painfully into his forearm, before finally coming to a stop at the base of the hill.

Winded he lay still, gasping, coughing a little, then gasping some more. Despite the fact that his body was covered in grazes and bruises and he was fairly sure he had probably broken his arm, Mahanon wore a huge grin on his face.

Hearing shouts and hurried footsteps coming closer, he sat up and, with a whoop, shouted, "That. Was. AWESOME!"

Bull was the first one to his side and, unmoved by the elf's obvious glee, merely grunted. "You're going to pay for that."

"It was worth it!" Mahanon declared happily.

The others reached his side then and Sera gave a snort, "You fucked that up."

"Yeah, but it was still awesome. Did you see how fast I was going! I was practically flying! I- ow!" Mahanon broke off suddenly when Cassandra took his sore arm in her hands. Looking at it, he decided that yes, it was definitely broken. But with adrenalin still coursing through his body he didn't seem to mind all that much. Besides, there was a healer at the Inquisition camp, it could be healed.

"Do you ever stop to consider what might happen to the Inquisition if you fell and broke your neck with one of your antics?" Cassandra scolded.

"Na, it'll never happen. Haven't you figured it out yet? I'm practically immortal!"

"Careful, kid or people will start saying you have a big head," Varric said.

Mahanon just grinned. Truth be told he was well aware that he was far from immortal but sometimes he felt as though he had to pull tricks like he had just done if only to remind himself he wasn't as vulnerable as he sometimes felt. Bull remained silent through all of this, though the small smile on his lips told Mahanon that he understood how the Inquisitor was feeling. The fact that he had been relying ever more heavily on Hyndel's potion, often needing to refill it three times in a single day, would not have escaped the observant qunari.

Cassandra hurumphed in that endearing way of hers and helped pull Mahanon to his feet. Standing his leg twinged a little and he shook it rather dog-like, shaking the pain out of it and the feeling back into it. The action wasn't missed.

"You injured your leg as well?" Cassandra asked.

Mahanon shook his head and bounced lightly on his toes to prove it (cradling his increasingly sore arm). "Na, old injury. I just jarred it when I landed."

"I wouldn't call that a landing," Sera teased.

"Don't tell me you last injured it trying to do tricks like you just did?" Cassandra asked.

"Nope. A shem warhammer was responsible."

"There's a story in that," Varric said.

"I'm sure there is," Mahanon said non-committally. He refused to say more though and, surprisingly, he wasn't pressed for details.

The five of them made their way back to the nearest Inquisition camp, rather more sedately than their journey out had been. By the time they reached it evening had fallen and Mahanon had stopped gloating and grinning over his 'achievement'. Instead he was left silently cradling his arm; now the adrenalin had worn off he felt every single scrape and bump and his arm was throbbing from his wrist to his shoulder, his fingers tingling.

The scouts spotted them first and a call went out, weapons raised until Cassandra responded. Mahanon was pleased; not that he doubted any of Harding's scouts but he was glad that they didn't just assume that those approaching were the Inquisitor's party even though they were the only ones expected.

"Is the healer around?" Cassandra called out as they entered the camp.

A tiny, petite elf ducked out from a tent saying, "I'm here. What's needed?"

"Our Inquisitor decided that breaking his arm was the best way to serve the Inquisition," Cassandra said, her voice practically dripping with disdain.

"It wasn't deliberate. It was, you know, collateral damage," Mahanon protested.

Cassandra sighed but was already walking away from him.

"Come sit here and let me have a look," the healer said and Mahanon followed her direction, sitting on a log bench and holding his arm out. While she turned it lightly this way and that, stopping whenever Mahanon winced or gave any other indication of pain, Mahanon looked around the camp. It was well set up and protected from the constant wind and rain by a copse of trees. Sera was inspecting her arrows, and Cassandra talking to one of the soldiers. Varric was sitting nearby, using the firelight to scribble something down - the dwarf was always writing, writing, writing, Mahanon was almost afraid to find out what he was writing about him. Bull was standing nearby, watching without seeming to be watching. Mahanon always seemed to be aware of his hovering presence. Not that he minded, he just wished it was because of a desire to simply be near him instead of just a worry that his illness might be getting worse.

He sighed as the healer eased the pain in his arm and what had felt innately wrong now felt right. Pulling his attention back to what she was doing, he watched as she took first two metal strips and bandaged them to the top and bottom of his wrist, then bandaged two thick leather strips to the left and right side of his wrist. "I've started the healing process and made sure the bone is knitting together straight, but you shouldn't use it for at least two weeks," she said.

"Oh my advisors are going to _love_ that," Mahanon complained. The healer, perhaps wisely, remained silent until she was done. Mahanon experimentally tried moving his wrist and found that the metal didn't give (of course) but the leather did a little. "Why the leather on each side? Why not four metal strips?" he asked curiously.

"Most people have roughly the same contours top and bottom of the wrist, but the contours vary greatly on the left and right. The leather allows for that where metal would not," the healer answered. Mahanon nodded in understanding and rested his wrist in his lap. "Now, I should probably check to make sure you don't have any other injuries," she said, her hands already moving forward to do just that.

"Ah, no that's all right, thanks," Mahanon said hastily, standing and moving away before she could do anything. "The rest are just bruises and scrapes, I get worse than that fighting demons, it'll be fine."

He backed away a couple steps then turned and started walking, leaving the healer sitting staring after him rather surprised. The last thing he needed was some over-zealous healer finding out about his illness so he did the only thing he could do: retreat and pretend he needed to use the privy. He wasn't surprised that Bull followed him.

"Real smooth, boss," he said.

Mahanon coughed a little then said, "What was I supposed to do? I couldn't risk it." Taking his flask, Mahanon grimaced when he drank the last of the potion, only getting a small mouthful. "Damn it," he muttered.

"We need to find something else that works. Soon," Bull said.

Mahanon sighed. "I know. It's like a game, a race to see what's gonna kill the Inquisitor first: Coryphyus or his own body."

"I would rather neither," Bull growled.

Mahanon gave a bark of laughter. "So would I." He had more he wanted to say but, of course, it was then that the coughing decided to take him in earnest (because it could _never_ come when it was most convenient).

*

Bull rested his hands on Mahanon's shoulders and pushed, guiding him to walk forward away from the camp and shielding him from them with his body. He already knew that he wasn't the only one to have seen how much he drank from the flask that was always at his hip; Varric had already approached him asking if their Inquisitor was turning to alcohol in order to cope with the stresses his position brought. Bull had been non-committal, unsure what would be worse: that the Inquisitor was ill or that he was an alcoholic.

He stopped when he judged that they were out of hearing from the camp and held Mahanon up with a hand under his shoulder. Mahanon's cough had turned from something that just sounded like a winter cold to something deeper and his breath had a gasping rattle to it. Mahanon rose his uninjured forearm to his mouth to cover it as he coughed and Bull was left to helplessly watch as it sounded as though his kadan was coughing up his very lungs.

Which, it seemed, wasn't far from the truth when he caught sight of the blood on his sleeve. Mahanon tried to hide it but Bull had already seen it, and he could see the pink staining the elf's teeth when he tried to flash a reassuring smile.

"You need to tell a mage," Bull said.

"No Bull," Mahanon said wearily.

"Boss..."

"I said no!" he snapped. He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. "You know my reasons for not telling anyone," he said more calmly. "Please, just let me handle this."

For a moment Bull debated saying more, arguing the point, but eventually just sighed, saying, "Come on. We're going to bed." He knew it wouldn't matter what he said or how much he worried, Mahanon wouldn't listen. Or he would but his own  stubbornness would ensure he didn't budge but instead carried the guilt of causing Bull that worry. Privately, Bull made up  his mind to seek council on the matter on his own; he had waited long enough.

 

*

 

Returning to Skyhold, Mahanon had been thoroughly scolded by Josephine and Leliana for taking such risks and told how lucky he was to have only broken his arm, all the while Cassandra watched on, a haughty expression on her face. Mahanon bore the scolding silently; he had grown used to it since Cassandra had barely let up the whole journey back and after the first few attempts of arguing back he had since given up and learned the best way to deal with it was just to respond non-committally, if at all.

When they seemed to be running out of things to say (finally), Mahanon cut in to ask, "Where's Cullen?" He had figured the man would have been involved in this little meeting, had kind of hoped he would be since he was fairly sure he would have sided with the Inquisitor at least a little.

"In his rooms. He's unwell today," Leliana said.

Mahanon frowned, concerned, his own lecture forgotten. "I'll go check on him," he said.

"You should probably just leave him be," Cassandra said.

Mahanon had already started to leave but he turned back at that to say, "While I was bed ridden after the assassins attacked, he visited me every day. The least I can do is show him the same courtesy," before turning once more and leaving the war room.

It couldn't be the same illness, Mahanon repeatedly told himself as he crossed the battlements towards Cullen's room. It couldn't be. If anyone was to start showing signs of it it would either be Bull for how much time they spent in each other's company, or Sera or Solas for them also being elves. And none of them had shown any sign of it.

Mahanon paused outside Cullen's door and took several large swallows from his freshly refilled flask; the last thing he needed was for a coughing fit to come on when he was checking on Cullen. That done, he knocked briefly and pushed the door open.

And narrowly avoided dodging something being thrown at him.

“Maker’s breath! I didn't hear you enter, I…” Cullen stammered to a stop, shaking his head. “Forgive me.”

“You would only need forgiveness if it actually hit,” Mahanon said with a small smile, trying to hide the fact that he was worried.

“You don’t need to-” Cullen cut himself off with a groan, staggering against the desk. All pretence at levity vanished at that and Mahanon hurried forward to help.

“I never meant for this to interfere,” Cullen said when he got control of himself once more.

“I know that. But what about you? Are you all right?” He realised as soon as it was said that that was a dumb question but he had to ask anyway.

“Yes… I don’t know,” he said. “Back in Haven, you asked if I had ever lost someone I loved. When I was in the Fereldan Circle it was taken over by abominations. The templars, my friends, were slaughtered. I was tortured. They tried to break my mind, and I - How can I be the same after that? I told you that it was, perhaps, worse to lose the respect of someone you love. Amell. Warden Amell.” Cullen gave a snort of derision at himself even as he paced back and forth across the room. “I thought myself in love with her, and I asked her, begged her, to kill all the mages, all of _her_ friends the way all of mine had been killed. I don’t think she ever forgave me for that.”

“Did you tried talking to her? Like you said, what you went through would have changed you,” Mahanon suggested gently.

“Yes. She came back to the circle a few times to check on how the rebuilding was going. She wouldn’t speak to me,” Cullen said. Mahanon grimaced; even as far away as the Lavellan clan had been from the blight, they had heard of it and of Warden Amell. What he had heard had painted her as a loving person but perhaps they were only stories after all; surely such a loving person would be able to forgive Cullen after what he had been through.

“Still,” he continued, “I wanted to serve. I was useless in the Feraldan Circle now so they sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight Commander and for what, hmm? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets. Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

“Of course I can, I-” Mahanon tried but he was cut off.

“Don’t!” Cullen snapped. “You should be questioning what I've done. I thought this would be better, that I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me… How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause!” Cullen was pacing in earnest now, back and forth, his hands emphasising, punctuating every sentence, every heated word. “I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry! I should be taking it!” A fist slammed into the side of a bookshelf, knocking a few items loose. “I should be taking it,” he whispered.

“Cullen,” Mahanon said, coming around and taking the hand that had punched the bookshelf in both of his own to ensure he had his attention. Looking into his eyes, those eyes that had once so entranced him but now only looked full of pain, he said, “You don’t need the lyrium. You are more valuable to the Inquisition not under its sway. But more than that, more than the Inquisition, what is it that _you_ want? Do you really want to go back to taking it?”

“I…” he sighed. “No.” The hand Mahanon was holding, still clenched in a fist, slowly released. “But… these memories have always haunted me. If they become worse, if I cannot endure this…”

“In Haven, I told you how my lover had been killed by slavers, in trying to save me from them. He was our clan’s First, the one who was supposed to take over from Keeper Deshana when she died, a mage, one of only two in Clan Lavellan to be born in my life time. Precious to our clan. As a hunter it was my job to protect him and I failed. I returned to my clan filled with terrors and nightmares of what they did to him, and to me, of how they had shattered my leg to stop me from running, of how they had nailed Faerel’s body between two trees for our clan to find. Then illness struck our clan and within a month fifteen of our most vulnerable, our elders and children died. Unless more have been born since I left, Clan Lavellan has no children. Seven more have died since I left, that I know of. The small mercy is that the elders and children died quickly. The healthy adults linger, for months, knowing what the eventual end will be but unable to stop it.”

“Mahanon…”

“I was sent to the conclave to find someone who was skilled at healing since Faerel had been our main healer. Kiarra was with me, our Second, who was now our First. I was to protect her at all costs and she died as well, in the explosion. And now I’m here, in the Inquisition. In the Fade I came face to face with every soldier who died at Adamant. Every. Single. One. And each of them recounted their final thoughts, their fears.”

“Maker, I… why wasn’t that in any of your reports?”

Mahanon gave a one shouldered shrug. “It wasn’t important. And I didn’t want to relive it. I’m not telling you now for pity, but to let you know that when I say I understand I really do mean it. Maybe not about the lyrium withdrawal, but the memories, and living with the failures.” He had dropped Cullen’s hand as he spoke but he picked it up again now, looking up into his face earnestly, studying it. “I understand. And I support your decision, one hundred percent. You can do this.” Mahanon gave a crooked half smile. “We both can.”

Cullen sighed and gave Mahanon’s hand a squeeze. “All right.”


	25. Incense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull and Mahanon have their first true disagreement.

Krem was standing guard outside the Inquisitor's door when he heard it. Coughing and a faint, barely heard thud. He exchanged a glance with Skinner, then said, "Stay here," before slipping through the doorway, closing it behind him. He knew what Skinner thought, she would be suspicious of another attack, but Krem had a more troubling concern. Lavellan had seemed pale when he returned to Skyhold and the Chief had been positively secretive, going off on his own to do who knew what. If it weren't for the fact that they still spent every night sharing a bed, Krem would have thought they had had a spat about something.

Hearing more coughing, Krem hurried around the corner to see Mahanon on the ground, trying to pull himself towards the final stairs to his room.

"Vishante kafas," Krem muttered and he turned and ran quickly to the door, poking his head out it. "Go get the Chief, now. Tell him the Inquisitor needs him."

Skinner gave a nod and hurried off while Krem returned to Mahanon. He had reached the bottom stair now and was stubbornly trying to pull himself upwards. Hearing Krem approach he turned to look, his eyes wide with fear at either being caught out or with what was happening. Perhaps both.

"Easy Lavellan," Krem said, his hands out placatingly. "I'm gonna pick you up and bring you to your room, all right?"

A nod was all Mahanon could manage between the coughing but that was enough and Krem slipped his arms beneath his knees and shoulders, lifting him easily. He seemed lighter than he had the night they had raided the dragon's head, but perhaps that was just Krem imagining the worst he thought as he climbed the stairs.

Laying Mahanon down on the bed, Krem asked, "Where's your potion?"

Mahanon pointed towards a doorway and Krem moved to open it, finding little other than a ladder inside. Climbing it brought him up to the mezzanine above bed. Here Mahanon had set up a table used with alchemy and all manner of herbs. And there on a table were two bottles of the potion, surrounded by countless empty ones. Taking them both, Krem climbed back downstairs and, with one hand cupped beneath Mahanon's head, helped him drink one.That done, the Inquisitor lay back on the pillows panting but the relief only lasted perhaps a minute or two before the coughing began again.

It was at that moment that Krem heard a distinctive growl coming from down the stairs; it seemed Bull had spotted the blood on the wooden floor.

"Bull..." Mahanon gasped.

With a nod to Krem as he moved out of the way, Bull took his place by the Inquisitor's bedside, a clank sounding as a bag he was carrying was dropped when he instead took Mahanon's hand in his own and used a cloth to wipe the blood from his mouth.

"I gave him a potion but it didn't really seem to do anything," Krem said. "There's only that one left that's already made up."

"No, they've stopped working. Probably why he hasn't bothered to make any more," Bull replied, not taking his eyes off the struggling elf. "Get a fire going, I've got something else we can try."

Krem didn't miss the light of hope in Mahanon's eyes hearing that as he went to do as he was bid, first closing the glass balcony doors then lighting the hearth. Krem suspected that as much as the Inquisitor had been light hearted and joking lately it was just a cover, hiding how scared the whole situation was making him. Probably why he had been skating down hills in the first place as well even if it had ended with him breaking his arm, a fact the elf had just laughed off when telling the Chargers about it.

“Done,” Krem said once the fire was burning well.

“Good,” Bull said. “You should probably go back downstairs, make it seem like nothing’s going on. Tell Skinner…” Bull sighed. “Actually I don’t care what you tell her, just make sure the two of you allow no one else up here for the rest of the night.”

“Will do, Chief,” Krem said. Catching the pleading expression Mahanon shot his way, Krem gave him a reassuring nod. He would not betray the Inquisitor’s secret.

 

*

 

Seeing Krem’s nod to him Mahanon would have breathed a sigh of relief if he had the breath to do so. He still wasn’t pleased that Bull had told his lieutenant but at least Krem had proved his word to him and told no one else.

After Krem left, Bull picked up the bag he had dropped and took out what was in it: a copper incense burner and a leather pouch likely with dried herbs in it. Mahanon sat up and watched as he went to the fireplace and used the tongs on the hearth to pull out a couple burning embers and drop them in the burner. Adding some of the herbs from the pouch, he then snapped the lid shut and carried it over. Already an acrid smelling smoke was wafting from the decorative holes.

Bull put the burner on the bed in front of him then ducked into the bathroom, emerging with a towel.

“Lean forward over it. Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Bull said, his forearm across Mahanon’s chest, holding him in much the same way he had their first night together. Bent over the burner, Mahanon’s nose crinkled smelling the smoke; it smelled of burnt hair and glue, he thought. And tasted worse, he realised, when he sucked in a breath to cough and his mouth filled with it. It did seem to still some of the spasms though. Bull draped the towel over his head and the air trapped between it and the bed soon filled with the stuff. The light was dim but the smoke hurt his eyes anyway so Mahanon closed them and focussed solely on breathing. The heaving coughs dwindled to a tickle and then eased entirely. The wheezing lingered longer but eventually that faded as well.

“Thank the Creators,” he whispered to himself as he was finally able to breath normally. His chest still burned as though there were a fire in his lungs and his limbs felt heavy and exhausted but at least he could breath without choking.

Sitting back away from Bull’s supportive arm, Mahanon lifted the towel and just let it drape around his neck. Bull was already moving to the sideboard and pouring a glass of water. Handing it over, Mahanon gave a weary smile in thanks as he took it and sipped it. It didn’t really help to get rid of the blood and acrid smoke taste but it did sooth his throat.

“So how did you find this?” he asked when he had finished the glass.

“I asked around.”

Mahanon’s stomach dropped and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who did you ask?” He tried to keep the suspicion from his voice but wasn’t sure exactly how well he succeeded.

“Anyone who’d listen. Apparently a Qunari asking about healing and herbs is rare enough that it’s often taken as a joke. Or they mistakenly think I want ‘special’ herbs.” He paused, perhaps expecting a laugh or a comment. When he got none, he continued, “These particular herbs were Dorian’s idea.”

“Dorain? The Vint, Dorian?” Mahanon demanded. Surely he had misheard; of all the people to tell, surely Bull couldn’t have told the one person Mahanon absolutely couldn’t stand.

“Yes. He’s a skilled mage, he-”

“I ask only that you tell no one!” Mahanon cut in; he didn’t want to hear it! “You told Krem already and that’s bad enough, don’t think I’ve forgotten that, but at least Krem’s a friend. And now you tell that Vint?”

“He’s a good man,” Bull growled.

“He is _not_ a good man! He cares about Dorian, Tevinter, and oh yeah, Dorain. And you told him the one thing I _need_ kept secret! You know what? Leave! Get out! Katoh, I don’t want to see you right now! Fucking get out!”

The shouting caused Mahanon to start coughing again. Bull came closer, his face creased with concern but Mahanon simply pushed him away. “Get out!”

Bull hesitated a moment and looked as though he was about to say something, but then he turned and left, shoulders slumped.

Mahanon moved the still smouldering incense burner from his bed and slammed it down on the bedside table. As he did so the dragon’s tooth necklace he wore about his neck swung into his view. He had not removed it since he first put it there but now, with a growl, he reached up, grabbed hold of it, and yanked, the clasp coming loose with a snap. He rose his fist to throw it, to smash it against a wall, but then paused, hesitating.

Slowly, Mahanon lowered his arm, teeth clenched and eyes closed against the tears that insisted on welling. It was all just too hard. His own illness, his clan’s apparent inescapable fate, Corypheus and his allies, Bull’s betrayal, all of it. He wanted nothing more than to escape it all so he did the only thing he could do: laid down, curled around the dragon’s tooth and the pain in his chest, and slept, the smoke from the incense burner wafting towards him, allowing him to breathe.

 

*

 

The following few days proved to be a blessing to his advisers as Mahanon threw himself into the work around Skyhold he had been neglecting since they arrived. Dignitaries were met, treaties discussed, scout reports read, troop movements planned, and judgements carried out. They were pleased enough that when he did disappear for an hour or two each day, no one questioned it.

Mahanon used the burner at night in his room as he slept but he had also procured a second burner, one he hid in a disused room beneath Skyhold. There were entire halls down there that were used for nothing but storage and being underground meant there were no windows for the smoke to escape from. The potions he had been able to mostly hide in plain sight up on his mezzanine; at a glance it looked like any other alchemy bench and he had requested the servants not to go up there lest something be displaced or accidentally contaminated. But smoke would not be so easy to hide so he pretended that he used it to help him sleep and had hidden a stash away down under Skyhold for him to escape to during the day.

Bull he avoided. He saw him sometimes but always at a distance when he was either watching the Inquisition soldiers train or training with his own Chargers. He didn’t go down to the tavern where the Qunari spent most of his time and he didn’t seek him out in his room. Bull, for his part, seemed willing to give him space, though Mahanon thought he always seemed to be watching whenever Mahanon was passing judgement on someone or walked the battlements with Cullen.

Dorian seemed to know that he was the cause behind this rift (or perhaps Bull had told him since they were so buddy buddy now, Mahanon thought viciously) and made himself even more scarce than normal. Mahanon tried to tell himself he didn’t care but even he knew that that was only what he wanted to feel.

He had stopped wearing the dragon’s tooth necklace but neither could he bring himself to go completely without it. He kept it in a belt pouch, out of sight out of mind, but still not just lying around.

 

*

 

Mahanon led the elven healer who had been seeing to his arm through the doors to his chambers. Hearing someone following, he glanced behind him and frowned when he saw Krem trailing behind, leaving Dalish behind to guard the door. He ignored him for now, not wanting to make a scene in front of the healer.

Krem leaned against the railing, arms and legs crossed while Mahanon and the healer sat across from each other. The bandaging was removed and the healer moved his wrist this way and that, pressing against where the break occurred (that caused Mahanon to wince a little), and finally summoning some of her healing magic to ease it.

“This is healing well,” she said as she redid the bandages, forgoing the splints now. “Keep strapping it for another week and then it should be fine.”

“Thank you,” Mahanon said.

The healer nodded to him then took her leave. Krem did not.

Sighing, Mahanon looked pointedly at Krem; he would not be able to avoid whatever he had to say so best get on with it.

“What did you do?”

Straight to the point then. Mahanon didn’t need to ask what he was talking about, knew Bull had been spending his time in the tavern drinking. He had heard from a concerned Cullen how he would joke and laugh with his men but then fall into staring silences, his mind clearly elsewhere. And of course Krem would assume that it was entirely Mahanon’s fault!

“Me? I didn’t do anything!” Mahanon snapped. “He’s the one who’s been spreading my secrets far and wide!”

“Telling me is hardly far and wide and I have told no one.”

“Telling you was bad enough but at least we’re friends and I can trust you. Clearly more than I can trust him. But to tell that Vint, Dorian? Plus whoever else he might have blabbed to without even a thought as to my wishes on the matter!”

“You think he didn’t agonize over this?”

“He might have agonized but he clearly came to the wrong decision!”

“So it was the wrong decision to want to try to save your life?” Krem hissed, his dark eyes flashing angrily.

“It was the wrong decision to do it when I explicitly asked him not to, when I trusted him not to.” Mahanon gritted his teeth and tried to calm his breathing. The last thing he needed was to trigger more coughing merely because he got worked up in an argument. “If that’s all you have to say then I suggest you leave as well.”

“He still wears the dragon tooth, you know,” Krem said quietly.

Mahanon looked away, blinking furiously, his hand going to the pouch where he kept his without thought.

Krem sighed and walked over to the closed balcony glass doors staring out of them. “I didn’t come here to yell at you,” he said, his voice sounding weary.

“Sure didn’t sound like that,” Mahanon said, and Krem turned enough that Mahanon could see the small twitch of a smile. “So what _did_ you come here for then?”

“To get you to talk to Dorian.”

“What? You-”

“Hear me out,” Krem said turning and half raising a hand to get Mahanon to stop. That wasn’t what he had expected at all; he had thought it would be to get him to make things up with Bull, or to talk to Bull. He didn’t think Krem would bring Dorian into this. “I know you don’t like him, and I remember you telling me how Teventer slavers had killed your lover, Faerel.” He had? As if seeing his confused look, Krem gave a tight smile. “You were drunk at the time.”

“Of course I was,” Mahanon muttered, looking away. Still, even when drunk he knew he didn’t speak of such things unless he was comfortable. Perhaps it had been the last time it was just Krem and him when they were working on Bull’s dress.

“Anyway, I know you have plenty reasons to hate them, hate us. And yet, despite that, you don’t hate me. Why?”

“You’re not really Tevene.” Krem rose an eyebrow at that. “What I mean is, yes sometimes I can hear it in your accent, and you swear in Tevene but apart from that I wouldn’t even know it. You don’t go on and on and on about it so I guess I can just… forget. Dorian... he doesn’t stop! If he’s not talking about himself, which is rare, then he’s talking about how wonderful Tevinter is. If it’s so wonderful, why doesn’t he go back there?”

“Because he can’t, the same as I can’t.”

“He’s biologically female too? The moustache is a fake?”

Krem gave a short laugh. “No, he is biologically male,” he said. “But more than that I won’t say as it’s his business who he tells.”

“Why are you pushing this?” Mahanon asked suspiciously. “You haven’t cared previously what I thought of him.”

“Because there is a wedge between you and the Chief and it’s tearing you both apart. He gave up the comfort of the Qun for you. This split is affecting moral not just of the Chargers to see their two bosses like this, but even the other Inquisition soldiers, men and women who laughed with you when you were avoiding dancing lessons, who stood with you at Adamant, who walked through the mountains from Haven with you. That the two of you, a qunari mercenary and an elven hunter, could not only find comfort in each other but love as well through all that we’ve been through, it gave hope to a lot of people without any.  And talking to Dorian, keeping an open mind, might allow that rift to start to heal. That’s all I have to say.”

True to his word, Krem took his leave after that, leaving Mahanon to sit by the fire, staring into the flames, mulling over what was said and what was not said.

 


	26. Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon confronts Dorian, though it doesn't go exactly as planned.

Mahanon glanced up from the book he was pretending to read and watched as the Vint riffled through the stacks of papers and books he was surrounded by. He seemed to always be surrounded by books whenever Mahanon saw him, though the elf certainly couldn’t see the appeal. Granted, part of that was because, even though his reading had improved since becoming Inquisitor, he still found no enjoyment in it and was as likely to fall asleep as not.

Sighing, knowing that delaying things wasn’t going to help at all, Mahanon stood from the seat he had been lounging in and walked over. Where he hesitated again.

Dorian looked up, hearing him approach, looked over Mahanon’s shoulder then back to his face. “Can I help you, Inquisitor?” he asked. “Or, if you need to use this space, I can leave.”

Mahanon grimaced a little - maybe what Cullen had said, that he scared the Vint, had been true. He still didn’t understand why, it wasn’t like he was about to have the man beheaded for no reason. That would only tarnish the Inquisition’s reputation and sense of justice. “No, stay,” he said. “I… ah…” he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. What was he so nervous about? Did he really think the Vint would jump him here, in Skyhold? Where dozens of guards and Templars would be on him in an instant for even daring to touch the Inquisitor? Ridiculous! “I wanted to thank you. For the herbs. They seem to be working well,” he eventually got out. “I was hoping to get some more.”

“What herbs?”

Mahanon blinked. Whatever reaction he had been expecting (and his imagination had provided quite a few reactions, disdain and mocking topping the list), that reaction hadn’t been it. “The… the herbs. The Tevene ones. Well, I assume they’re from Tevinter since they came from you. I don’t actually know what they’re called. But Bull said you suggested them and-”

“Oh those! They’re called Garcea, or rather the plant is called Garcea, the herbs are their leaves dried. They’re a little hard to get this far south, but not impossible. I take it you were the friend with the cough then?”

“You didn’t-” Mahanon broke off with a glance around, all too aware of how many ears could hear. Grabbing the Vint’s arm, he dragged him deeper into the alcove where there was some privacy at least. “What did Bull tell you?” he hissed, feeling as though he had just swallowed ice.

“Only that he had a friend with a cough, one that had started causing blood to be coughed up,” Dorian answered, wide eyed.

“He didn’t… He said nothing of who it was for?”

“Not to me. It _is_ you though, isn’t it?”

Mahanon closed his eyes and leaned against the bookshelf at his back. He wished the world would swallow him up, that a Fade rift would open right below him that he could just fall through. He felt like the scum of the earth and it was totally, entirely deserved.

“Tell no one of this,” Mahanon hissed, his eyes snapping open and locking on the Vint. “If I hear of anyone else finding out, I will know it came from you and you will be gone.”

“I won’t tell anyone. Believe me, I know all about the need to keep up appearances.”

Mahanon hesitated a moment longer, staring into the Vint’s dark eyes before he nodded, convinced that he would say nothing, and left. He headed to the tavern then, needing to make things right.

Outside the air was cold and crisp and Mahanon pulled his jacket tighter around him. The sun was setting and already he knew there would be fresh frost in the morning, the churned mud freezing solid overnight. Still, Mahanon paused, gazing at the tavern lit like a welcoming beacon ready for the evening trade. Reaching into his pouch he pulled out the dragon’s tooth necklace and gazed at it. Krem had said Bull still wore his, he hadn’t given up on him. Closing his eyes and clenching his fist around the split tooth he brought it up to his chest, over his heart. He had been such a fool! Too stubborn and too blind to even think to ask more details. Too quick to think the worst of someone who only wanted the best for him.

With a sigh he opened his eyes and fastened the necklace around his neck, unable to help the feeling of rightness it gave by being there, something he hadn’t even realized he had been missing the last few days.

The tavern as he entered it was as busy as ever, everyone coming here to retreat from the cold evening, get a hot meal and enjoy good cheer. Bull, as always, was easy to spot; there were no other Qunari in the room so he stood a good head and shoulders above everyone else, even while sitting. Everyone ignored Mahanon as he pushed his way through the crowds, though the Chargers, seeing him, fell silent and simply watched.

Feeling heat rise to his face at the scrutiny, some of it speculative, some of it hostile, Mahanon cleared his throat then said, “Bull could you come for a walk with me? I want to talk.”

Bull gave a single nod and, handing his tankard to Rocky, stood and followed Mahanon out. He could feel the stares of the Chargers on their back as they left and it wasn’t until they were just at the door that he heard conversation start up among them again.

Mahanon led the way up to the battlements where he knew they could speak privately, the patrols giving them a wide berth while still watching, ever vigilant.

Leaning against the wall looking out over the valley he felt Bull do the same and for a moment or two they stood in silence.

“You’re wearing the necklace again,” Bull said quietly, not looking at him.

That made the guilt Mahanon felt even worse; Bull had noticed he had stopped wearing it which only highlighted how much of an arse he had been. It had obviously hurt him enough that he felt the need to comment on the fact that he had begun wearing it again. “Yes,” Mahanon said, then lapsed into silence once more. As the silence grew, however, Mahanon felt he had to fill it in a way he had never felt required to around Bull. “I…” He sighed. “Mythal, Bull, I’m sorry. I hate this, what’s come between us. I thought…”

“You thought I had told Dorian who the herbs were for and in actually talking to him you found out that wasn’t the case,” Bull said.

Mahanon turned to look at him only to find that Bull was still staring out over the valley, his shoulders still tense. “Yes. How did you… nevermind, I know, Ben Hassrath.”

That brought a small smile to Bull’s face. He was standing with his good eye closest to Mahanon and turned his head slightly so he could see the elf better. “What made you decide to actually ask him?”

“You don’t know?” Mahanon asked surprised. A raised eyebrow was his answer. “Krem… kind of ripped me a new one for not even verifying facts before getting angry at you,” he admitted, leaning once more against the wall and looking out, trying to ignore the ashamed flush that crept up his face. “And then in assuming you had already told him everything I wound up betraying my own secret.” He sighed and hung his head. “I warned the Vint-”

“Dorian.”

“What?” Mahanon asked looking at Bull, thrown off by the interruption.

“His name is Dorian. Not the Vint, any more than you are that elf, or I’m the Qunari,” Bull said firmly. Mahanon blinked, then looked away again. Bull reached out and, without looking at him, rested a hand on his far shoulder, his thumb lightly digging into the tense muscles between his shoulder-blades, pressing and rubbing. “I know your history with Vints makes it hard to look past that but if you’re to start treating Dorian as a person and an ally rather than the enemy, then you need to call him by his name.”

Mahanon still wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t the enemy - by all accounts Corypheus had come from Tevinter hadn’t he? - but he knew he had to try. Regardless of whether Bull had worn the necklace this whole time or not, he felt that by accusing Bull of betraying his trust, of not even giving him a chance to defend himself, he had nearly lost him. Mahanon couldn’t bare the thought of that so, for him, he would make the effort to call the Vint, to call Dorian by his name.

“Dorian,” he corrected himself, and was rewarded by a squeeze on the shoulder. “I warned Dorian not to say anything and he said he wouldn’t. I just hope I haven’t blown it, that he keeps his word. We cannot afford to have people find out about this now.” He sighed and turned slightly so he could see Bull. “I had a council meeting today, along with our new advisor from Orlais, Lady Morrigan. Corypheus is retreating, our continued victories have him on the run, but it is an organized retreat to the Arbor Wilds. Where we will soon follow. If word were to get out now…”

“I know, Kadan,” Bull said, his voice a deep, low rumble and Mahanon leaned sideways against him.

“I’m sorry, Ma Vhenan. So, so sorry, I-” he was cut off when Bull used a finger to lift his chin, kissing him deeply to stop the apologies. Mahanon returned the kiss but pulled away again to try, “I mean it, Bull, if I-”

This time Bull was a bit more forceful in his silencing, a low growl coming from his throat as he turned Mahanon so his back was pressed against the stone wall, one arm behind his shoulders holding him close as he kissed him again. A small smile about his lips, Mahanon gave in, allowing Bull to have his way and just enjoying it.

 

*

 

_Inquisitor,_

_Meet me in the library when you have the chance. I have found something that may interest you._

_D._

 

Mahanon stared at the note with the flowing, perfectly neat handwriting. The servant who had given it to him ducked a curtsey and started gathering his laundry. Mahanon tapped the re-rolled note against his thigh thoughtfully as he stared into the fire. Two days had passed since he had last spoken with Dorian and made up with Bull. Where the later was concerned, the two of them seemed happy enough to pretend that their disagreement had never happened and, to Mahanon’s relief, the Chargers followed suit.

But in all the time he had been with the Inquisition, Dorian had never requested a meeting with him before. Which made Mahanon sure that whatever he wanted to discuss was related to his illness.

Tossing the scroll in the fire, wanting to leave no trace of anything that might be found and used against him, he set about preparing himself for the day. After burning the herbs overnight, he was breathing easily enough this morning, though still felt run down and tired. A letter from his keeper arrived yesterday, though it didn’t really say a lot, just beseeched him not to forget their plight and to inform him that more had succumbed to the illness. As if he could forget. Should he manage to save them, Mahanon knew, they would now be required to request any nearby large clans to send volunteers to join clan Lavellan. There was always some intermingling, of course, otherwise the clan would die out, but it always happened naturally. Being forced to ask for volunteers was shameful.

Splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to wake up, Mahanon dressed and left his quarters. As he always did, he paused before the final door that would lead him to the great hall, mentally preparing himself. With a deep breath he pushed opened the door and entered a whirlwind of activity. For a moment all Mahanon could do was stand and stare. In place of the usual fawning nobles there were practically hordes of servants cleaning every inch of the hall. And overseeing it all was Josephine, like a commander directing her troops. Her sharp eyes spotted Mahanon immediately.

“Ah, Inquisitor there you are. I was just about to send someone to rouse you,” she said approaching and cornering Mahanon before he could dart off somewhere. “Are you all right? You look terrible.”

Mahanon ran a hand over his face with a rueful smile. “I’m fine, Josephine. Just tired. What’s all this?” he asked, waving an arm to indicate everything that was going on in the hall.

“You don’t think the great hall needs cleaning?” Josephine asked, though the small creases at the corner of her eyes told Mahanon that she was jesting.

“Na, a little dust and grime never hurt anyone! Adds to the charm,” Mahanon said.

“Normally, I would agree with you.” Mahanon rose an eyebrow at that. “Allright, perhaps not. But this time it is a special occasion.”

“Josephine,” Mahanon whined. “It’s too _early_ for these kinds of games.”

Josephine laughed at that. “Oh all right. The King of Feralden is coming to Skyhold.”

“Wait, what? The King? Coming here? I thought Leliana said it… it would be a while… it has been a while since then hasn’t it?” Mahanon realised.

“It has. Several months in fact.”

“But what about the Arbor Wilds? I thought we would be heading there within the week.”

“There is no need to mobilize the Inquisition’s forces before we know exactly what Corypheus is up to and where he is going. Leliana has her scouts working on it but it will take time. And in the meantime we have a King to welcome.”

“I’m going to have to wear shoes again, aren’t I?” Mahanon said flatly.

“Yes, Inquisitor. You will most definitely be required to wear shoes,” Josephine replied, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

“I know!” Mahanon said, a grin playing about his mouth. “The Orlesians have masked balls. Skyhold should have shoeless balls!”

Silence.

Then, “No, Inquisitor.”

Mahanon sighed. “Fine then. I’m guessing there’s a meeting later today to discuss all of this, dates and what’s required and the like? What to expect?”

“Indeed there is. After lunch.”

Mahanon nodded. “Very well. I’ll see you then,” he said, raising a hand in farewell as he moved around the bustling servants to the rotund. He smiled a little at Solas’s latest work depicting the Inquisition’s actions, but didn’t pause to talk or admire it, instead going up the stairs to the library to where he could hear voices drifting down.

“Yes, I _know_ that royalty is making a visit but I from what I’ve heard he doesn’t spend a lot of time in libraries. No- Give me that- Vishante kaffas, will you all just get out!”

Mahanon leaned against the rail and watched with a raised eyebrow as Dorian practically wrestled his books from the servants cleaning the area. “Unless you want to tangle with Lady Josephine, I suggest you just let them work,” he said from where he stood.

“Inquisitor!” Dorian exclaimed, spinning around to see him, so flustered his moustache was askew. “Apologies, I didn’t hear you approach.”

“I got your message,” Mahanon said.

“Yes, well I sent that before all of _this_ ,” he waved a hand to encompass the still bustling servants, “started happening. I was hoping to talk quietly with you about… well, things. References I found in some old histories. But with all these people about…”

“Come on,” Mahanon said pushing away from the rail. “Grab what you need and we’ll go some place quieter.”

“My dear Inquisitor, but what will people think?” Mahanon didn’t bother responding, just levelled him with a flat stare. “Right. Well then. I’ll just get my things.”

‘His things’ turned out to be a rather large pile of books, some so old they were falling apart, and countless pages of notes written in the same flowing script as the message to Mahanon. Well, this meeting was sure to be interesting, Mahanon thought.

He led the way out of the library, leaving Josephine’s horde of cleaners to do their work. Mahanon paused only long enough to let Rocky, who was guarding his door at present, know where he would be if Bull was looking for him. Not that he thought he would be but the simple fact was he didn’t like being alone with a Vint in a disused part of the castle without someone knowing where he was.

Mahanon took Dorian down to the room he had nicknamed his ‘smoke room’. He had dragged all the old, discarded furniture that was still sound in there so it was quite nicely fitted out with couches, chairs and desks. As far as he could tell, the only reason the furniture wasn’t used at the moment was because Josephine decided it didn’t match the décor of whatever room they had initially come from.

“Quite the little hideaway you’ve got here,” Dorian said as he rested his books and papers on a desk.

“I needed somewhere to use the incense burner without alerting any servants,” he said. “They never come down here. Which also makes it the perfect place to discuss what it is I think you wish to discuss with me.”

“Of course. I was doing some reading yesterday when I found this,” Dorian said. He dug through the pile of books eventually coming up with one and opening it to a tagged page. Turning it to Mahanon he pointed to a paragraph. “Here,” he said.

Mahanon leaned forward to read, but then shook his head. “I can’t read Tevene,” he said.

He readied himself then for ridicule that never came. Instead, Dorian said, “Roughly translated, it talks about how a family line in Tevinter was wiped out by illness. That’s rare, most members of prominent families being mages and all, not to mention the desperate turning to blood magic. If it were a normal illness, magic should have healed it. Bull told me when he first mentioned the illness that magic didn’t work?” The tone indicated a question so Mahanon shook his head. “Exactly. So it must have been with this family.”

“What’s your point?” Mahanon asked. As far as he could tell that just meant it was a widespread disease.

“My point, is that what you have likely originated in Tevinter, since I could find no other reference to it prior to this record.”

“That’s not really surprising. My clan would wander the lands in the Free Marches. It’s not so far from there to Tevinter.”

“You’re still thinking of this as though it were a normal disease,” Dorian said. “If that were the case then likely everyone at Skyhold would have developed some form of cough by now and those you’re closest to even more so. But they haven’t. It can’t even be one of those diseases that only affects one race or all the elves in Skyhold would have started becoming affected and someone like Sera would not be the type to try to hide it.” Mahanon smiled a little at that, knowing it was true. “Which means it’s something that was directed at you and, I’m guessing, your clan.”

“What makes you guess my clan?” Mahanon asked, uneasy.

“You’ve been asking about healing remedies and sending anything you find to them. When I found out that you were the ill one it was not a difficult leap to the conclusion that they are also affected, which was why you were sending the remedies to them.”

“I guess. But I still don’t know how knowing that it originated in Tevinter or even that it was directed at my clan has to do with anything,” Mahanon said.

“The families in Tevinter are always feuding with someone. Life’s not exciting without a little feuding thrown in! So, I thought, if this illness wasn’t natural, it had to have been cast on them, likely some kind of blood magic.”

“You don’t know?” Mahanon said suspiciously.

“Despite what you may believe about me, I don’t practice blood magic. The tool of a weak mind, I was always taught. The truly great achieve their greatness without falling to such base magic. So no, I don’t know.”

“But you want to.”

Dorian sighed. “All right, let’s have it. Go ahead and accuse me of all you want to accuse me of and then I can refute it point by point.”

Mahanon rose a hand and ran it through his hair; he could feel a headache coming on. “No,” he said. “That wasn’t what I came here to do. I’m sorry. I don’t like it when people assume I’m some subservient waif of a thing because I’m an elf, and yet it has been pointed out that I am doing the same to you, painting you with the same brush as the worst of your countrymen solely because that is the only experience I have had of them.”

Dorian’s eyes softened a little at that. “We’ll try it a different way, then shall we? I’ve always believed that the root of suspicion lays in ignorance, so why don’t you ask me whatever questions you like about me, my family, Tevinter or whatever, and I will do my best to answer them honestly.”

The smallest of smiles crossed Mahanon’s lips at that. He nodded. “Alright then,” he said.

The next hour or so they spent talking about Tevinter, how it was run and Dorian’s place in it. Despite himself, Mahanon found himself actually growing interested; Dorian was a skilled storyteller, his voice expressive and arms gesturing and he really seemed to get into whatever they were discussing. When Mahanon started to cough, he simply got up and lit the burner, putting it next to the struggling elf, never stopping in his story. Eventually the conversation turned around to blood magic again and Mahanon learned how the most important families in Tevinter all claimed not to practice blood magic but often did.

“And you think this illness may be caused by blood magic,” Mahanon said eventually.

“It’s certainly possible, and makes more sense to me than a natural disease. It would have to be something that, once the seeds are planted, can be sustained on its own though and that would be most difficult. Unless there is someone in the Inquisition besides me who you don’t trust and would be capable of such a thing?”

Mahanon shook his head; until recently he would have jumped at the suggestion that it was Dorian causing it, even if that made no logical sense since Dorian had never seen his clan or even passed through that part of the country.

“If you will let me, I would like to use my magic on you, to try to get an idea of what it feels like within you,” he said.

Mahanon hesitated for a long while, thinking, staring at the mage. Dorian was not what he had expected. Not by a long shot. Though it didn’t help that both Krem and Bull had said as much before but he hadn’t been willing to listen. “Tell me exactly what you’re doing as you’re doing it, and you can use your magic,” he said eventually.

Dorian’s perfectly groomed eyebrows shot up in surprise at that, but he nodded; clearly the man had been expecting Mahanon to refuse. He still felt very uneasy about it, but he reminded himself that Bull trusted him, trusted him enough to use the herbs he had suggested and they had worked. And Mahanon trusted Bull.

Dorian stood, coming to stand next to Mahanon and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It is hard to describe how you will feel this when you don’t have magic yourself but more than likely you’ll feel a kind of tingling mass enter your chest and move around. If it becomes painful, or you want me to stop for any reasons, just say and I will, all right?”

Mahanon nodded in agreement.

 

*

 

With that nod of permission and understanding, Dorian allowed his magic to slip inside the Inquisitor. Through that he could feel how Lavellan’s lungs weren’t working properly, how they would shake and shudder with each inhalation and couldn’t seem to get all the air out with each exhalation. He could also feel the strained muscles of his back, chest and stomach from the violent coughing fits. What was more concerning though, was the blood that was slowly trickling into the lungs. Threaded throughout was a sense of wrongness, almost like a three dimensional net that, to Dorian’s mind eye, appeared black, and would constrict now and then, triggering more coughs.

“I can see it,” he said. “I know Dalish mages likely tried to heal it but I would like to try, to feel for myself what they did. I’m not very skilled at healing so this may sting a bit. Are you still willing to let me try?” he asked. One thing Bull had advised him was to always, always ask permission for everything regarding magic, for every step. Not willing to blow this opportunity, he did just that.

“All right,” Mahanon said. “You’ll still stop when I say?”

“Of course,” Dorian said. “I promise, the instant you say stop.”

Lavellan nodded and so Dorian attempted to pull at the net he could feel, to test its strength. The instant he reached towards it though, it seemed to dart away. He could not touch it without it shifting to avoid his touch, as though it sensed his magic and wanted nothing to do with it. Intriguing.

Summoning more magic, Dorian attempted to surround the net with it, then bring his magic inwards, figuring that with nowhere to escape to it would allow his touch. Instead, it constricted violently. The reaction was physical and immediate as Lavellan seemed to curl in on himself and leaned forward, coughing with a sudden violence. His hand reached up to pull Dorian’s away to stop it, not having the breath to say as much. Not wanting to break the new-found trust, Dorian pulled out instantly. He pushed the burner closer so that Lavellan couldn’t help but breathe in the smoke and added another leaf to it. There were folded cloths on a sideboard and, after sensing the damage inside Lavellan, Dorian was able to guess what they were for. He took one of them and poured a glass of water, bringing both of them to Lavellan who gave a nod in thanks, accepting both.

“What did you do?” Lavellan asked when he had breath, though his voice was a harsh whisper and muffled by the cloth he held over his mouth.

“Whenever I tried to touch the illness, it would move away from me. So I tried enveloping it, figuring it would have nowhere to go and I would be able to touch it and thus divine more from it. I sensed it constrict which was when you started coughing. Did you physically feel that happen?”

Lavellan gave a nod. “In a sense.” He paused and wiped the cloth over his mouth, looked at it, grimaced, then laid it face down on the table. He need not have bothered trying to hide it though; Dorian could see the blood staining his teeth as he spoke. “It felt like a cramp, but in my chest and lungs. The cough started like those reflex coughs you get when you’re punched in the chest. But then it kept going like normal.”

Dorian nodded. “I am sorry. I didn’t expect it would do that or I wouldn’t have done it. Or I would have at least warned you first.”

Mahanon gave a wave of his hand. “It’s fine. Did you at least learn anything from doing so?”

Dorian leaned back in his chair, thinking. “I think so. I’m now confident that it is magic in origin, blood magic or perverted healing magic.”

“What do you mean, perverted healing magic?”

“It feels like a net, a weave. When healing a cut I was taught to look at it like cut cloth, and to weave the threads back together, essentially knitting the skin back together. I wasn’t very good at it, would fumble the threads, but I could see what had to be done easily enough. This is similar. It looks like a similar kind of weave, only it’s been perverted. Instead of healing, it harms, cramps, tears. On top of that it has been created to sense other magic and to avoid it which is _most_ interesting.” Seeing Lavellan’s raised eyebrow, Dorian grinned. “Academically, of course. If it weren’t so harmful to you and if time were not of the essence I would love to study it further. Having said that, I could also see the damage it had already wrought and I know that you are running out of time,” he said, his voice softening at that.

Lavellan looked away. “How long?”

Dorian shook his head. “I cannot say for certain. As I said, I am not particularly well versed in the healing arts. How long have you been coughing blood?”

Lavellan paused. “About a month.”

“Then should the rate of damage continue at that, I would say no more than six months,” he said quietly.

Lavellan seemed to go visibly paler at that and Dorian looked around the room for something a little more bracing than water. Seeing a brandy decanter, he got up and poured them both generous glasses. Lavellan downed his quickly then held out the glass for a refill.

“I’m not going to give up, Lavellan. If there’s any record, any hint of reference to what’s been done to you and your clan, I will find it. It is now my top priority,” Dorian said sincerely.

Lavellan looked at him as though trying to study him and work him out. Dorian let him. Eventually, he said, “Thank you,” and stood. “I have to go, Josephine wants a meeting to discuss this whole king visit. But you’re welcome to use the space down here for your research so you can do so in peace.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said.

A nod later and the Inquisitor had left, leaving Dorian to pour over his books with a new perspective. Despite what the elf thought of him, he really _did_ want to help and not just because whoever did this was a magical genius. It was cruel what had been done, and if it was done by someone from Tevinter as Dorian suspected, then someone from Tevinter had to be  the one to fix it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time Mahanon!


	27. A King Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair Therin, King of Ferelden, visits Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references the Dragon Age comics so it would be best if you had read them. If not, one of the main things that happens in it that I'm referring to is an adventure Alistair as King goes on with Isabella, Varric, and briefly Sten as Arishok. If you haven't read them I highly recommend them, they're only a couple dollars per issue on Dark Horse Comics and are very entertaining.

“One of the training exercises our First and Second would have to do is to visit other clans or even into Shem towns and listen to their stories. This was after they had already memorized our own stories of course, when they would seek to expand their knowledge.”

Mahhanon and Bull were sitting on the plush hearth rug in front of the fireplace in Mahanon’s room, Mahanon sitting between Bull’s legs with his back against Bull’s chest, the Qunari’s arms wrapped loosely around him and the blanket about his shoulders. It was late, later than any sane person should be up, but Mahanon was unable to sleep and that had, in turn, kept Bull awake. But instead of going to his own room to sleep where Mahanon wouldn’t disturb him, Bull had insisted on finding out what was on Mahanon’s mind. That was relatively simple: King Alistair Therin was due to arrive tomorrow. He would be coming to Skyhold and Mahanon would not only get to meet him in person, but actually talk to him, play host to him (ok that part he wasn’t so thrilled on), and actually get to know him.

“Often our Keeper would go with them, but if she were busy then a hunter or two would go,” he continued. “Faerel needed the protection most often; he wasn’t very good at offensive spells and was too kind-hearted to stand up for himself. He set an aravel on fire once to avoid hitting a bird that flew in the way of his spell.” Mahanon more felt than heard the rumble of laughter in Bull’s chest at that. It was comforting to feel that warmth against his back.

“After they returned to the camp they were supposed to be able to retell the stories they heard, both immediately after and a few weeks later. Most of what Faerel recited bored me to tears; he was more interested in herbal recipes and the like. But there was this one story he picked up in a shem tavern. About how King Alistair, a shem pirate thief, and a qunari warlord attacked and took a Tevinter keep.”

“Oh yeah. I remember that,” Bull said.

Mahanon twisted in Bull’s arms, his eyes wide. “What do you mean you remember that?”

“They were brought to Saheron while I was there. The king and Arishok made a kind of temporary alliance to take the keep.”

“I thought Gatt said that the Qunari had never entered into an alliance before?”

“Never entered an official alliance. The King was recognised as Basalit-an, an outsider who does not follow the Qun but is worthy of respect. That, and he and the Arishok were friends. I wasn’t chosen as part of the group to assault the keep though.” Mahanon was staring at Bull who took it for a while then shifted a little under his piercing gaze. “What?”

“You were there,” Mahanon said. “Did you actually see him?”

“Na. They were… kind of prisoners at the time? But they escaped. I saw him briefly in that chaos - good fighter - but that’s it. Why is this such a big deal?”

“That story was my favourite. A shem ruler who actually seemed to care about elves, helping those in the alianages and leaving the Dalish alone, who joined up with the near mythical Qunari - don’t laugh that’s how your race was seen to us at the time! - and together with a pirate of all things, he took down a keep nearly on his own that was held by Vints. That’s incredible! After that I tried to get Faerel to find out anything he could on King Alistair and if there wasn’t something new then I would pester him until he retold that story.”

“And now you get to meet him,” Bull finished.

Mahanon shifted and turned to lean sideways against Bull, looking up at him. “Yeah,” he said with a huge grin on his face.

 

*

Inquisition soldiers stood at attention along either side of the windswept bridge to Skyhold. Mahanon shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. He was wearing the same shoes he had worn to Halamshiral (thank the Creators he had avoided more fittings since it was such short notice) and he couldn’t feel the earth beneath him like he preferred, but it was more than that.

Meeting Celene had caused his heart to pound and his palms to sweat. Of course Josephine’s comments about how every word, every action, every facial twitch could be interpreted as something as part of the Game, something that could make or break the Inquisition, or at least Mahanon’s own life really didn’t help. But this was more than that as well.

King Alistair of Ferelden had known the Hero of Ferelden. They had been lovers. But he had also fought and killed the archdemon that threatened Ferelden during the blight. Cullen told him he had been with the Warden when she returned to the Ferelden Circle and helped liberate him from his demon prison. Leliana had said how bravely he fought all who did wrong, defended those who needed defending. Faerel had told him how he had taken a castle from Tevinter mages. The Warden was the hero in the south, but it was King Alistair who was a hero to Clan Lavellan and especially to Mahanon.

And Mahanon was about to meet him in person.

A large hand clapped down on his shoulder, holding him still as Bull leaned down to murmur quietly, “You look like a child who’s busting to take a piss.”

“Actually that might not be a bad idea,” Mahanon said, twisting to look behind him at Bull, the words sparking the instant need.

“The Inquisitor does _not_ need to go potty,” Josephine hissed.

Leliana tittered behind a hand. “Relax Lavellan. I think you’ll find Alistair is a likeable sort.”

“Uh huh,” Mahanon said, and straightened as he caught sight of the column. It was the banners Mahanon saw first, two rearing cats. Or were they supposed to be lions? Or maybe dogs with long tails, Fereldens liked dogs. Maybe Mahanon should ask King Alistair that when he got here. But no! That was stupid! You don’t ask a king something like that, especially a hero like King Alistair was!

“You’re thinking too much, Kadan,” Bull murmured in his ear. Mahanon flushed remembering the last time he had heard those words and tried to settle himself. He felt a thumb dig into the tense muscles between his shoulder blades, pressing on the spots that seemed to instantly release muscle tension.

Riders were coming through the gates now dressed in the furs and leathers that Fereldens seemed to prefer. Sensible, Mahanon thought. Unlike the fancy Orlesians. Everyone began bowing so Mahanon followed suit, watching Josephine out of the corner of his eye for the cues on what to do when . Thuds of boots landing in icy mud sounded as riders dismounted.

“Please tell me that castle is not as foreboding as it seems and that there’s something warm inside; it’s colder than a witch’s tit out here and believe me, I’d know,” a man said as he approached, a genial smile on his face.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Josephine replied.

“Hullo Leliana. You’re looking… deadly,” he said.

Lelian giggled. “Why thank you, Your Majesty. You’re-”

“Wait a minute,” Mahanon cut in. He had been looking between this man and his advisers back and forth in confusion and only now did he notice the rather plain metal band around his head that none of the other new arrivals had. “ _You’re_ King Alistair?”

Josephine visibly winced.

“Yes, what gave it away?” the man drawled. “Was it the bowing and scraping, all the ‘Your Majesty’s, or perhaps this abominable crown? Seriously, who’s idea was it that crowns should be metal? The same people who think it’s fun to go around licking metal posts in the snow, I bet. It should at least be fur lined or something. Yes, I’m Alistair and I’m the King, or so everyone tells me. I take it you must be Lavellan, the Inquisitor?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mahanon said, thrown off a little by the greeting, so unlike what he had experienced in Halamshiral. He grinned. Thank the Creators for that!

“Come inside where it’s warm, Your Majesty,” Josephine said, shooting daggers at Mahanon which only made him grin wider.

“Yes, warm is good!” the king said as they all headed inside. “I heard Cullen Rutherford is the commander here. Where is he?”

“Yes, where _is_ the commander?” Josephine asked.

“He wasn’t feeling well so I told him to stay abed. Or at least stay quiet. He said he would make it out for the evening feast though,” Mahanon said. Josephine frowned at that but she didn’t protest it.

“Is he ill?” King Alistair asked.

“Ah… probably better if you ask that yourself when you see him,” Mahanon said.

“So mysterious,” Alistair said.

Mahanon grinned. “Not really. It’s just his business so if he wants it shared he should be the one to tell it.”

Alistair nodded, then, entering the great hall, whistled appreciatively. “Here I thought I was coming to some provincial backwater.”

“Not quite, Your Majesty,” Josephine said.

“Josie would never allow for us to appear provincial,” Leliana said.

As the four of them strode into the great hall, Mahanon was relieved that for once he wasn’t the centre of attention. It made a nice change, one he thought he could get used to. Once inside Josephine’s office they all took their seats and Mahanon sat in silence for the most part, boots kicked off (pointedly ignoring the glare Josephine sent his way) and feet tucked comfortably under him, sipping the mulled wine a servant brought. He mostly just listened as Alistair, King Alistair Therin chatted and caught up with Leliana, the Inquisition’s spy mistress, as though they were old friends. Of course, Mahanon had known they were friends, Leliana had spoken fondly of her time traipsing around Ferelden with a band that rivaled Mahanon’s own in variety, combating the blight. But it was one thing to know it and another to watch the consequences of that time spent together unfolding before him.

Eventually though the ever practical Josephine steered the conversation to important matters. “How long is Your Majesty planning on staying?” she asked. “I tried to find out from your steward but he was… vague.”

“Let me guess,” Alistair said, and he threw his head in the air, pinched his nose and put on a voice to say, “It will take as long as it takes to ascertain the true intentions of the Inquisition and the forces it commands.”

Mahanon grinned at the impression even though he had, thankfully, never had any contact with the man. Even Josephine smiled, though her response was a little more diplomatic, saying, “Yes, something like that.”

“I suspect a week should be long enough to convince everyone that I’ve wagged my finger at you and scolded you on how naughty you’ve been setting up on my lands without permission and so on. To tell the truth, I couldn’t care less - at least you’re allowed to _do_ something rather than hide away in Denerim - but one must keep up appearances, or so I’m told, so here I am.”

“Are people really mad at us in Denerim?” Mahanon asked, surprised. Since the Inquisition was formed he was only aware of one minor noble objecting to their presence back in Haven and Josephine had assured him that the issue was dealt with.

“Not really. I think they’re just mad that I’m not. They were more disgruntled after Haven was destroyed but what you’ve accomplished since then has mostly wiped it from their minds. Even the couple who claimed to own this land desisted when I told them I would only carry their claims to you if they signed a legally binding contract that they would not only upkeep the castle, including all repairs, but they would also be required to find another base of operations for the whole of the Inquisition. They weren’t too thrilled about that. So you’ve got nothing to worry about from me, at least not while Corypheus is still alive. After that?” Alistair shrugged. “Who knows? From what I hear though you’re fairly skilled at dealing with the nobility yourself for someone also not born to it.”

“Then your informers need to be replaced,” Mahanon said before he remembered just who he was talking to. Blushing, he stammered out, “Er, Your Majesty, I mean-”

“Oh stop that. You’re practically a king yourself from what I hear.”

“What? No I’m not!” Mahanon protested.

Alistair held out a hand and pointed to each finger as he listed off the reasons. “You live in a castle, I live in a castle. You resolve disputes, I resolve disputes. You lead an army, I lead an army. Well kind of for both of us since I suspect you rely as heavily on Cullen as I do on my various commanders. You pass judgement on the guilty, I pass judgement on the guilty. You’re forced to be nice to overbearing nobles at endless dinner parties, so am I. No offence Lady Josephine,” he added, shooting a secret wink to Mahanon. “I could go on but I’ve run out of fingers.”

“Well, yes, but I don’t _want_ to be seen as a king, I don’t want to do any of those things, it all just kind of fell in my lap and happened that way!”

“Exactly! Just like it did for me!”

“I think you are fighting a losing battle there, Lavellan,” Leliana said, her eyes practically glittering with amusement.

Mahanon folded his arms across his chest and sunk low in his chair, sulking. “I’m not a king. I refuse,” he muttered.

"That's what I said," Alistair replied, though he was still grinning. The others simply good naturedly laughed at him, as though tolerating a stubborn child.

 

*

 

Tonight’s feast was much like the night before’s and, as much as Alistair appreciated the effort the Inquisition was putting in on his behalf, he couldn’t help but already long to be on the road again. He was aware of his reputation as a  hands-on king, always travelling to visit his vassals in person, and was proud of it. It was much better than sitting up in a castle in Denerim getting fat. It had been with some amusement that he had watched Lavellan practically stumbling over his words as he spoke to him; Alistair had grown used to the hero worship over the last ten years but he hadn’t expected to be receiving it from someone as powerful as the Inquisitor himself. Especially since said Inquisitor seemed completely oblivious to how much those around him worshipped him in the same way. He had already overheard Inquisition soldiers telling his own men fond stories of how their elven savage had ran through the halls to avoid dancing lessons with a furious Josephine trailing after him, how he always went around barefoot whenever he could (actually, Alistair could see that the elf had kicked off his boots under the table already and was sitting cross legged). And how he had found a lover in the Qunari mercenary.

Alistair turned his attention to the so-called Iron Bull. He was seated at a slightly lower table, but was roaring and laughing with the rowdiest of soldiers. He appeared well into his cups, though Alistair did not miss the serious looks he kept shooting to the Inquisitor. An Inquisitor who was, currently, surprisingly quiet, pushing his food around his plate and drinking his wine in big gulps. He kept clearing his throat as though to speak but said nothing.

When the first of three dessert dishes come round, instead of the the enthusiasm the Inquisitor showed at this last night (he had been practically bouncing in his seat as he ate the chocolate mousse), Lavellan didn't even seem to notice. Then, in a strained voice, he said only, “Excuse me,” before standing and leaving. Bull almost immediately stood and followed, Alistair noticed. A quick glance around the room showed various expressions: two or three seemed concerned, though most were smirking and sharing ribald jokes and nudges, ones the Bull took care to acknowledge and perhaps even encourage. Alistair glanced across to Leliana, but found her face carefully neutral of course. “What’s that about? We’re just getting to the best bit, he walked out on cheese!” he said with a smirk.

Leliana smiled and said, “The Inquisitor hasn’t been particularly well the last few days. I suspect it’s nothing to worry about, Your Majesty. He just doesn’t like the cold.”

“He doesn’t like the cold but he lives in an ancient castle up in the _Frost_ back mountains?”

Leliana chuckled. “Well as soon as you let us know of a fortress in a warmer climate that is this defensible be sure to let us know.”

“I’ll do that,” Alistair replied.

The rest of the feast went smoothly, though the Inquisitor did not return. No one else commented on this though which made Alistair wonder if he had done it before, if it was considered normal behaviour now. He was inclined to duck out on the feast to go visit him, but knew that wouldn’t be appropriate. Instead he had to wait until at least the third dance after the food had finished before he felt it was polite enough to stand.

Going to the Inquisitor’s door, he was met by a Tevinter lad who hesitantly stepped in front of him. “Um… sorry Your Majesty, but it’s probably best if the Inquisitor is left alone for the night.”

“You’re guarding his door?” he asked. It would explain why he had been hanging around the area for most of the night and barely drinking anything.

“I am. After the last assassination attempt we don’t allow anyone up there other than two servants, the Chief, and his advisers,” he said.

“Wise, but do you really think I am an assassin?” Alistair asked.

“Well…” the lad shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Your Majesty, but no one would suspect you if you were.”

Alistair laughed at that and had to concede it was a very good point. “Very well, we’ll try this a different way. Your chief, The Iron Bull, he’s up there now, isn’t he?” A nod. “Well do you really think I would be able to best him should I try to bring any harm to your Inquisitor?”

“No, but my orders-”

“Cremiscius Alaclassi, are you truly refusing to allow a king passage?”

Alistair turned with a grin to the familiar voice of Cullen Rutherford, though it faded a little seeing how pale the man appeared; he truly did look ill.

“But, sir-”

“Don’t worry. If I bring any harm to the Inquisitor I’m sure Cullen here will take the blame, right _Curly_?” Alistair said, latching on to the nickname he had heard Varric use earlier.

“Of course,” Cullen said, though he shot a narrowed eye glare to Alistair.

“On your head then, sir,” this Cremiscius said stepping aside. Alistair grinned; he liked this guy.

Going through the door, he had only just climbed one set of stairs before he was met with another barrier, this time in the form of a hugely muscled Qunari. Bull was… huge. And the way he stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest like that made him look even bigger. And… was he flexing? He was! He was flexing his muscles to make himself look even bigger! Well two could play at that game! Maybe not physically, but, “I know your Arishok. Let me pass.”

“You know the Arishok. He is not here and he is no longer my Arishok.”

Well so much for that. “I-”

“Let him through, Bull.”

Alistair peaked around the side of the huge Qunari to see Lavellan standing at the top of the stairs, holding on to the railing and definitely looking pale. His hair was damp and he was wearing a long woolen robe.

Bull didn’t move, didn’t even look behind him. “You sure, boss?”

“I’m sure. We can’t very well insult the King when he’s allowing us to remain here on his lands, now can we?” he said, his tone light hearted even as his voice remained strained.

“Sure we can,” Bull said, though he turned to the side anyway so Alistair could slip past.

Lavellan shot a glare to the Qunari but then smiled ruefully to Alistair as he climbed the stairs. “Sorry,” he said. “Bull can be a bit over-protective sometimes.”

Alistair glanced over his shoulder as the Qunari began to follow them but instead of watching him as Alistair expected, he only had eyes for the Inquisitor. Or eye as it were. “How did you know I was coming?” he asked.

“We heard you. Or rather, Bull heard you and could tell you were trying to be quiet,” Mahanon said as he sat down in a chair in front of the fire, folding his feet up under him, and poking at an incense burner on a small table beside him. “Sorry if the stink of this bothers you, I… ah… it helps me sleep,” he eventually said, though Alistair could tell that it was a lie, or at least only a half truth; there was no way something that smelled like burnt hair was conducive to sleep.

“What is it?” he asked, taking the only other unoccupied seat. The Iron Bull didn’t seem to mind though, merely moving to stand behind the Inquisitor and rest his hands on his shoulders.

“Cana… Cath… I don’t remember what it’s called. Some plant from Tevinter. Were you looking for me for some reason in particular?” he asked. Changing the subject. Very well.

“Oh, I just wanted to see if the famed Inquisitor’s quarters were as lovely as my own,” he joked, looking appraisingly around the room.

Lavellan smiled. “And the verdict?”

“Much nicer than my own!”

“I’ll be sure to tell Josephine that,” Lavellan said with a teasing grin.

“Not that there is anything wrong with my rooms,” he hurriedly added. Change the subject, he needed to change the subject before he dug himself into a hole. “Did he say that you heard me coming?” he asked, looking past Lavellan to Iron Bull.

“Ben hassrath,” the Qunari said.

“Oh yes, ben hassrath. I had one of those too you know, until the wheels fell off,” Alistair drawled.

Lavellan gave a snort of laughter which turned into a cough. When it passed, he just grinned and said, “Ben hassrath is a spy. Bull was sent here to spy on the Inquisition until the Qun demanded something neither of us were okay with. Hearing someone approach isn’t a big deal.”

“You’re a spy. You? You don’t exactly… blend in.”

“Exactly,” Bull said. One of small words, that one. Reminded him of Sten.

“Well, I suppose I would never have expected it, but still.” Alistair looked back to Lavellan. “And you still trust him?”

“With my life,” Lavellan said simply, and the way he leaned back against the chair towards Bull left Alistair with no doubt as to just how much he really did trust him. They were at least as close as the rumours said. Alistair sighed; this elf was going to get himself hurt in the same way he had been hurt with Solona’s fate. And, just like him, he would likely have no one he could turn to in his grief thanks to his station.  

“So why did you _really_ come up here?” Lavellan asked.

“You’re not buying the whole ‘check out the Inquisitor’s rooms’ then?”

“No,” Lavellan said flatly, though there was still a small smile on his face.

“So instead you thought you would interrogate me?” Alistair asked, raising an imperious eyebrow.

And… there we go! The Inquisitor turned bright red and started stuttering, “Ah, no, that’s not, I mean, ah-” Alistair couldn’t hold back the laughter at his reaction any more. Even more so when the elf growled, “Fenhandis.” Even The Iron Bull had a small smile on his lips at the elf’s obvious fluster.

“The truth is I was concerned, that’s all,” he said. Standing he strode over to the fire place to poke it, if only for something to do with his hands. “After your excitement at desert last night, all evening you were quiet and then you left before the desert, which was quite lovely I might add. I thought perhaps you may have gotten some bad news, something that I should know but you didn’t want to speak of in public.”

Lavellan grimaced. “Was it that obvious?” he asked.

“I don’t know. To me it was but perhaps not to those who know you better?”

“It wasn’t obvious,” Bull said. “It was obvious something was wrong, but not what.”

“Good,” Lavellan said, not bothering to mask the relief from his voice.

“What _is_ wrong?” Alistair asked, standing and turning to face Lavellan, his back to the fire.

There was a moment of hesitation before that false smile came up once more. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just a winter cough. Nothing to worry about.”

“It’s not winter,” Alistair pointed out.

“But it’s _cold_!”

Alistair laughed. “It is that,” he allowed. Very well then, if Lavellan didn’t want to divulge the true reason something was wrong he would leave it and trust that if it were something that threatened Ferelden he would be told. The Inquisitor, in fact all of the Inquisition had been very forthcoming with their plans and sharing of any intelligence that he could use to aid in defence so he had to trust that this was not related. Solona, he knew, would have poked and prodded and got the truth out even if it meant burning bridges in the process, but he was here and she was not and he did not wish to make an enemy of the strongest force currently in Thedas merely to satisfy his curiosity. “Perhaps we should share some of Josephine’s mulled wine? That would probably be good for a cough,” he suggested.

Lavellan grinned. “That _was_ very nice,” he said. He twisted in his chair to look back up at The Iron Bull.

The Qunari scowled. “I’m not your servant,” he growled.

“Pretty please?” Lavellan said sweetly, widening his eyes and smiling prettily.

The Iron Bull seemed to hesitate a moment before he growled, “Fine. Probably should see what my boys are up to anyway.” He left muttering to himself about petty elf eyes and Inquisitors who knew how to use them.

Alistair bit his lip to keep from laughing but only held out until the Qunari had left till a wide grin crossed his features. “Got him wrapped around your little finger, don’t you,” he said.

“Maybe a little,” Lavellan allowed, smiling. “But he knows all he has to do is ask and if it’s in my power I’ll provide it for him.”

“Anything?” Alistair asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lavellan grinned wickedly. “Well, almost anything,” he admitted.

“Of all the unexpected things your Inquisition has shown me, a relationship between an elf and a qunari takes the cake.”

“When I first joined it wasn’t exactly on my mind as a possibility either. But now it’s happened, I couldn’t imagine life without him. I’ve only managed to do what I have because of his support.”

“Be careful, Lavellan,” Alistair said seriously.

“What? Why? If you’re referring to an assassination attempt there’s already been one nearly successful one, it won’t happen again.”

That didn’t even surprise Alistair; he had also weathered a few attempts and he wasn’t making nearly as many enemies as the Inquisition was. “No not of that. Of the Qunari. The Qun is all important to them. Even one as obviously fond of you as The Iron Bull is will turn on you in an instant if his Qun demanded it. And then you’ll have to deal with the heartbreak along with everything else.”

“No he won’t.”

Lavellan spoke with such certainty that Alistair was taken aback for a moment, but then he frowned. “I’m serious, Lavellan-”

“So am I!” Lavellan cut in. “Bull will never betray me. He’s probably among the very few I can trust to never betray me and he’s had plenty of opportunity to do so. His loyalty to the Qun has already been tested. The Qun demanded he sacrifice the lives of the men under his command. He refused. It was probably the hardest thing he had ever done but he did it. The Qun doesn’t control him, it never will and he will _never_ betray me.” Such certainty, Alistair marvelled. Had he also been so naive? Believing that those he trusted would always be there for him? “The only way I can foresee our relationship being over is if… well, if one of us dies which frankly in this line of work is a possibility. But on the other hand, what we share drives us both, makes us better and even harder to kill, it-” Lavellan broke off then and started coughing again, raising the sleeve of his robe to cover his mouth as he leaned closer to the incense burner. Alistair watched and waited and when Lavellan had his breath back, he said simply, “My relationship with Bull makes me stronger, not weaker.”

“For now, yes,” Alistair allowed. “But what if he’s killed? What if he’s killed to protect you? You can’t tell me, after that whole speech, that it’s not something he would do.”

That at least gave Lavellan pause; he knew that what Alistair had said was true, that Bull would give his life for him. In Alistair’s experience the Qunari as a people needed to have an almost slavish devotion to something. Most of the time it was to the Qun, but after what Lavellan had just said, coupled with what he had heard about the two of them, it seemed likely to Alistair that Lavellan had replaced the Qun in Bull’s eye. Which meant he wouldn’t give a second thought to dying in order to protect him.

Lavellan sighed then. “I know where this is coming from. Josephine and Leliana made sure I brushed up on my shem history, especially history concerning you, before you arrived. You loved the Warden and she sacrificed herself to destroy the archdemon. Leliana told me that the only way to kill an archdemon is for a warden to sacrifice their life, to tie their life to it and then kill it. Or something. I can’t pretend to have paid a lot of attention. You went through that and you don’t want me to feel the same.”

That cut right to the core of it. Feeling a pain he thought long dead, Alistair turned away and walked to stand by the windows. Not that he could see much beyond what crossed the circle of light from the odd torchlight but he had learned to mask his pain even if that meant physically turning away. “She sacrificed herself before I could do the same, to stop me from doing it. I don’t know what it will take to defeat Corypheus, but don’t delude yourself into thinking that you and Bull will always be together.”

“I don’t,” Lavellan said simply. Alistair turned back and looked over his shoulder, mildly surprised. “I have lost someone I loved before. We didn’t go through as much hardship as you and Warden Amell did, but he was still killed trying to protect me.” There were fine lines around Lavellan’s blue-grey eyes, Alistair noticed. Lines that wouldn’t normally be there in an elf of his age. And it was in his eyes that he could see a pain that reflected his own, a pain that only someone who loved and loved deeply and lost could know. “After Haven, when I was out in the snow freezing to death quite literally I... heh,” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know if it was a dream or a spirit or a hallucination, but I thought I saw him, the one I loved and he bade me to love again. True or not, that allowed me to be open to the idea but it was Bull who allowed it to happen. More than anyone else here, Bull understands me and what I want and need,” he flushed here, which was strange Alistair thought, “and we help each other. I could die, or he could die, but we’ll deal with that when it happens. I’m not going to spend what time I have worrying about it.”

Alistair was silent for a while, thinking. Then, “Perhaps… perhaps I have misjudged you, Lavellan,” he admitted.

Lavellan grinned. “Maybe we should get you a big qunari who can see to your needs.”

Alistair gave a bark of laughter. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Truly? I know of a few tal vashoth who would eat up a blonde bit of man flesh like you,” Bull said coming from the stairs as he climbed them, tray with mulled wine on top in hand.

Alistair spluttered at that. “Ah no,” he said. “I think I prefer my women at least somewhat smaller than me.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Lavellan teased and this time it was Alistair’s turn to blush.

*

That evening, Bull laid on his back in Mahanon’s bed, the elf snuggled into his side, and Bull felt Mahanon sigh contentedly. “You heard every word, didn’t you?” he asked, and Bull could feel the movement of his cheeks against his bare chest, a smile playing about his lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bull said, his voice low and was rewarded with an ear flick as the vibrations of his voice in his chest tickled Mahanon’s sensitive ear. He loved doing that.

“Yes you do. You were standing down the stairs listening nearly the whole time, weren’t you.”

“Maybe.”

Mahanon slapped Bull’s stomach lightly, causing Bull to laugh, the movement jostling the elf a little. “Of course I was,” he admitted. In truth, he had felt his heart swell overhearing Mahanon’s words, spoken with such a fierce earnestness even as he was hiding facets of the whole story. “But I knew not to interrupt. He’s not what you expected, is he?”

“No,” Mahanon said. “He seems… sadder. Bitter even. I thought he would be more happy and joking like he was in the stories. Though maybe Faerel elaborated on them for my benefit. But Leliana had told me stories of how playful and joking he was as well, like an excitable puppy she said.” Bull couldn’t help but think that sounded rather like Mahanon himself, though the elf clearly hadn’t picked up on that similarity, something that only made it all the more adorable. Mahanon sighed. “I guess I just wish he had what we have. Maybe we _should_ set him up!” he said excitedly, pushing himself half upright to look at Bull. “Not with a big burly Qunari, but maybe we can find a human girl he would like.” He smirked. “Maybe we should see if Lady Morrigan is interested and will go away to Denerim with him.”

“That’s mean,” Bull said.

“I can’t help it, I always get the feeling she’s hiding something.”

“I meant it’s mean to the King.”

“Oh, heh, yeah I guess.”

“His nobles probably have someone lined up for him to marry anyway,” Bull said.

Mahanon grimaced and laid back down again. Bull wrapped his arms around his slight frame, holding him close. “You know, if I was still with my clan, that’s probably what would happen to me.”

“What, you become king and have nobles set you up with some pretty human girl?”

Mahanon snorted. “Not quite. But if I didn’t find a girl I liked on my own, my Keeper warned me that she would have to ‘assign’ me one. It didn’t matter for Faerel, it’s risky for mages to have children in case they have mage children, they may have to be sent away. There was actually a girl I had my eye on come to think of it.”

Bull lifted his head to look at Mahanon, raising an eyebrow; he was under the impression that his lover only ever fancied men. Feeling this, Mahanon twisted so he could grin up at Bull. “Not what you think. She cared for the hala and had her own female lover. I thought, perhaps if she was under the same pressure from the Keeper, we could come to an arrangement between the four of us.”

Bull chuckled and laid his head back down. “You don’t exactly strike me as someone who likes to share.”

“Perhaps not. I wonder if she’s still alive…” Bull reached down and gave Mahanon a light slap on the arse. “What?” Mahanon demanded, indignant.

“What does wondering achieve besides stress and worry?” Bull asked rhetorically.

Mahanon simply sighed. “I guess in that sense it’s a good thing events have put me here instead of still with my clan. I don’t have to worry about that.”

“Exactly,” Bull said, and he held the elf close as sleep claimed the two of them.

*

The day before the king and his entourage were due to leave found Mahanon, Krem, and Blackwall crouched in a corner of the stables, cooing over a bitch and her three healthy pups. Krem and Mahanon were _supposed_ to be practising a new move that Bull had been showing all his Chargers, something that was supposed to be successful in defending against an opponent with Mahanon’s speed but, hearing yips, they had come to investigate to find Blackwall bringing food to the new mother.

“She had a difficult labour, poor girl,” Blackwall was saying. “Two of the pups didn’t make it, but these three seem healthy.”

“They’re adorable,” Krem said, gently petting one while she chewed on her mother’s ear.

“Have you named them?” Mahanon asked.

“Na, it’s probably best for whoever decides to look after them to name them. I’ll have to find owners soon before they all bond to me.”

“What’s wrong with that? You could have a horde of grey warden puppies!” Mahanon said, delighted by the mental image that conjured.

“They are very cute.”

All three of them spun around at the voice to find King Alistair standing there watching them. Both Krem and Blackwall hastily bowed and Mahanon was about to as well but straightened with a grin when he caught the exasperated look the king wore. Glancing back at the pups Mahanon came to a decision. Picking up the only female pup, he plopped her in the kings arms so he had no choice but to take her or let her fall. “Here! You need a puppy!” he declared. He could hear Blackwall spluttering behind him, but he ignored that, instead just grinning widely up at the king.

“Ah, what?”

“Bull and I were talking the other night, I wanted to try to find someone nice for you after our talk, but he pointed out that you had to marry for the good of Ferelden. So since you can’t choose a human girl, you should have a puppy girl,” he said, feeling quite pleased with himself.

“I really don’t think-” King Alistair broke off suddenly when the pup gave him a huge lick on the face. “Ugh!” he held the pup out away from him. “You know, I travelled with a dog just like you. Only he was bigger and smarter.” The pup whined and wriggled trying to get closer and, despite himself, King Alistair relented, bringing her back to his shoulder but replacing her attempt at chewing his ear with his fingers instead.

“See?” Mahanon said proudly. “She likes you!” She truly did seem to take an instant liking to the king and, Mahanon thought amusingly, her coat matched what her new master was wearing: dark grey, light grey and a russet red.

“I don't know Lavellan,” Alistair said. “There are plenty of mabari at home and-”

“But they're raised to be fighting dogs right?” Mahanon said. “She's not, she's just an ordinary dog, a companion, someone to keep you company who you can rely on. Dogs are a lot more honest than people and they keep secrets.” The king still didn't look convinced, so Mahanon added, “Give her a try while you're here. If you still don't want her when you leave we can try and find someone else to take her. Though I think she'll be heartbroken to miss out on her first choice.”

“She would, wouldn't she?” the king said quietly. “All right I'll give her a trial. See if I still like her after she's chewed one of my favourite boots.” He manoeuvred the pup to look her in the eye and said, “You don't do that, do you? Solona’s mabari did that so much that once I had to wear odd shoes till Leliana took me shoe shopping. I do _not_ want to repeat that!” The pup in response gave a quick little lick to the tip of the king's nose, tail wagging madly. “Hmm, we'll see,” he said as he took his leave, pup under his arm.

“You just guilted the King of Ferelden into accepting a puppy,” Blackwall said after he was out of earshot, a distinct tone of awe in his voice.

Mahanon turned with a grin. “What? He was sad, so he needed a puppy.”

Krem just laughed and said, “Never change, Lavellan.”

*

Alistair was laying on his stomach, chin propped on a forearm, while the other dragged a bit of knotted rope he had found discarded back and forth across the carpet, the pup roaring around after it.  She had strong jaws already this one. When she caught the rope her teeth would latch on, the muscles in her neck bulge, and her forepaws brace with claws digging into the plush carpet. She would be strong when she grew to be big.

“What are we going to name you, hmm?” Alistair said quietly as the pup growled at him around the rope in her mouth. “How about Sir Barksalot?” The pup growled even louder. “Don’t like that, huh?” Alistair said with a smile. “That’s all right, I don’t like it either. Though I suppose it would have had to be Lady Barksalot.” Another growl. Alistair laughed. “All right, all right, not that. Hmm…” he trailed off thinking. He was never very good at naming things. Solona had asked him what he thought they should name her mabari but all of his suggestions had been dismissed as silly. Alistair sighed; it had been ten years but he still keenly felt Solona’s death, still saw it in his dreams. He was king now, he could change nearly anything, but the one thing he couldn’t change was her death. She was meant to be by his side, she was meant to be his queen. But she had given her life to end the threat of the blight. For king and country. Ha. Alistair wished she had been selfish just once.

A sharp tug of the rope, yanking at his arm, pulled him back to the present and he smiled at the pup. Solona would approve, he thought. She had always loved that mutt of hers, she would approve of him adopting a pup of his own.

He pulled the rope so that the pup had no choice but to follow then caught her in his arms and, rolling on his side, held her close, stroking her fur even as she continued to try to attack the rope. “Your fur is so soft you would suit a Lady name, if you hadn’t already chewed one of my shoes.” A yip. “Yeah, you’re proud of that, aren’t you?” Two yips. “Yes, mighty Zakira, slayer of shoes, but not just any shoes, a king’s shoes!” The pup let go of the rope then and leapt forward licking all over Alistair’s face.

“Ugh!” Alistair exclaimed, holding her away, though he smiled regardless. “You like that name, huh?” Yip. “Zakira.” That set off several yips and her tail wagging so fast that her backside wriggled with it. “Zakira it is then,” he said and he put her down to continue playing with the rope.

*

Mahanon stood with his advisers and closest circle in order to see the king and his entourage off. Mahanon was grinning, mighty proud of himself. The pup had not been seen out of the king’s sight since Mahanon had quite blatantly guilted the king into taking her. Even now, she was sitting up on the saddle in front of the king lest she get trampled underfoot in her excitement. He made a good choice in giving her to him, he thought.

They had said their formal farewells already and the king was leading the way through under the portcullis and along the bridge when Mahanon suddenly groaned.

“What?” Varric, who was standing next to him, asked.

“I forgot to ask him about that time he stormed a Tevinter keep!” Mahanon lamented.

“If you’re interested in that, you could have asked me,” Varric said.

“You’re a good writer Varric, and your stories are well told mostly-”

“Mostly?”

“-but you weren’t actually there,” Mahanon continued, ignoring the interruption. “A story is always different when told by someone who was there.”

“I _was_ there!” Varric said.

Mahanon turned to look down at him, an eyebrow raised. “No you weren’t. I know the story, I had Faerel tell it over and over. There was the king, a shem pirate, and a qunari Arishok.”

“I was there too!” Varric exclaimed, looking almost angry.

“You don’t have to make up that you were there, Varric,” Mahanon said placatingly. “If you like we can exchange versions of the story later but it still won't be as good as good as from someone who actually took part in the battle.”

Varric didn’t bother replying, he simply turned on his heel and stormed off, muttering to himself, leaving Mahanon staring after him.

Leliana was giggling to herself and Mahanon turned to her asking, “What?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she said.

Later came that evening when he was fetched from the tavern to attend a meeting. Entering the Great Hall, Mahanon glanced across to Varric’s corner to be met with a glare. He sighed. “Varric is still angry with me and I don’t know why. All right, so I said that only most of his stories are well written, but even he doesn’t like some of what he writes so why does it matter?” he complained to Leliana as they passed, heading towards the war room.

“I don’t think he’s annoyed about that. I think it’s more the fact that you didn’t believe him when he said he accompanied the king in taking that Tevinter castle,” Leliana said. “He was actually there.”

Mahanon stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at Leliana. Unlike Varric, she wasn’t known for exaggerating the truth just to suit her own purpose. Which meant she had to be telling the truth. “But then… why wasn’t he in the stories I heard? There was no mention of a dwarf in them.”

“I can only guess but I believe it would be possible for the story to become twisted, some elements made out to be better than they were and some forgotten entirely as it travelled all the way north to the Free Marches,” Leliana said.

That… actually made a lot of sense, Mahanon was forced to admit to himself. Spinning around, he strode over to Varric’s corner, demanding loudly, “You were there?!” Ignoring the startled stares his outburst gained.

Varric looked up from where he was no doubt writing a scathing description of the Inquisitor with a big nose and covered in warts to glare at Mahanon. “I told you that, didn’t I?”

“You knew the king and you didn’t tell me?!” he cried grabbing hold of Varric by the shoulders.

Varric rose his hands and moved them outwards to push Mahanon’s grip away. “You never asked,” he pointed out.

“Lavellan, the meeting?” Leliana called.

“Later!” Mahanon said, turning his back to her as he sat down by the fire. “Tell me everything!” he beseeched Varric.

The dwarf sighed but, unable to resist telling a good story, took his seat back and complied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this chapter took to come out but hopefully it's worth the wait. Alistair is hard to get inside his head but once there he's quite entertaining :)


	28. Dorian's Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian meets with his father and Cassandra learns of the curse that is slowly killing the Inquisitor and the race to find a cure.

“It’s certainly a lot quieter now that Alistair has gone home,” Cullen said as he moved a piece on the chess table.

“Admit it, you miss it,” Mahanon said with a smile as he pondered his own move.

“Perhaps a little,” Cullen allowed.

“You and he were friends, weren’t you? He mentioned something of the sort at one point. Did you get a chance to catch up and talk about something other than the end of the world?” Mahanon made his move.

“We did,” Cullen replied. “We went through training together, though I was a year or two ahead of him and I was posted to the Ferelden Circle right after I completed my training. I believe he was recruited to the grey wardens soon after. I didn’t see him again until he came to the Circle with Amell to rid it of the demons that had taken over.” He moved his piece. “If he recognised me then he didn’t say anything and I didn’t recognise him until I was thinking about it afterwards.”

“That doesn’t really surprise me, you weren’t exactly… yourself at that point,” Mahanon said quietly.

Cullen smiled. “That’s one way of putting it. Another was I was an arse who demanded that they kill all the mages who had been her friends and family. We didn’t talk of that time though.”

“What did you talk about? All the pretty ladies you bedded as Templar recruits?” he asked teasing.

Cullen laughed. “Maker, no. I was too shy to even talk to most women and he was just… oblivious. No, we mostly just reminisced about our days training together. About how he was always getting me into trouble over some scrape or other.”

“Oh now you have to tell me!” Mahanon said. “At least one story!”

“Well, there was this one time,” Cullen started, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands. “The Chantry where we lived and trained was next to a druffalo paddock that a nearby farm used to send the beasts out to pasture. Alistair would tell me all these stories about what it was like growing up in Redcliffe, how it was so much better than it was there; he really hated learning to become a Templar. Some of the stories were obvious fabrications, but others were believable.”

“If he hated it so much, why did he stay?” Mahanon asked.

“The options for a royal bastard aren’t exactly grand,” Cullen said. “His younger years were spent living and working in the stables at Redcliffe under the protection of his Uncle Teagan but political manoeuvring got him sent to the Templar order where he would be out of the way. Templars aren't supposed to have any claim on their family's fortunes; they cannot inherit. Perfect for a royal bastard to get him out of the way without killing him. Anyway he used to tell me about how the Arl of Redcliffe kept a few druffalo and how it was sport there to get blind drunk and attempt to push them over. Without letting the alphas send you sky high of course.”

Mahanon snorted. “I have to get Bull to try that!” he declared, picturing it.

“He probably has the mass to be able to do so. Two teenage boys, on the other hand, less so. Nonetheless, Alistair was determined to have me pass this so-called rite of passage. Don’t ask me how he did it, but he managed to steal a whole flagon of ceremonial wine from the Chantry. With that in hand he somehow convinced me that skipping classes that afternoon and sharing it with him was a good idea.” Mahanon bit his lip to keep from grinning like a fool; it was hard to imagine Alistair doing something like that even before life had hardened him and it was near impossible to imagine it of stern Cullen.

“We spent the evening getting blind drunk on stolen wine until sunset, which, he told me, was the traditional time for druffalo pushing. So there we were, staggering through the fields towards the nearest druffalo where he got me to charge the thing and attempt to knock it over. It was futile, of course. I wound up with a mouthful of mud more often than not and Alistair was beside himself with laughter at my efforts even after out actions attracted the attention of an alpha druffalo and we were forced to run for it. I thought he was just laughing because I was unsuccessful so kept trying harder. But no. It was all a ruse, a practical joke he pulled on me. Which he proceeded to inform me while we were hightailing it out of there.” Mahanon was laughing at this point, easily able to picture two drunk Templar lads running from an angry druffalo.

“Of course, we didn’t even think of closing the gate behind us, so by morning we were tossed from our bunks, groaning with a hangover, to be sent out to the fields to round them all up again. How druffalo can travel so far over the space of a few hours is a mystery we never learned,” Cullen finished, smiling despite himself.

“I kind of wish I had met you all earlier, just to get involved in such fun,” Mahanon said.

“Oh, Maker, no! You and Sera pull more than enough pranks as it is for now, without adding young Alistair into the mix!” Cullen protested. Mahanon grinned, unable to deny that such a match up would be _incredible_! Though that grin soon turned to a frown when Cullen said, “It’s your move.”

“I know, I’m thinking!” Mahanon protested. It was a tactic to make him rush a move, he knew that, but he still felt pressured to make his move quickly now especially against such a competent player as Cullen was.

The tactic obviously worked as planned when Mahanon moved his piece, directly into the trap Cullen had set. “Check mate,” he said with a smile.

Mahanon pouted. “You should play Bull,” he said.

“Oh? Why’s that? He doesn’t exactly strike me as the kind who would like games that don’t involve hitting things.”

Mahanon laughed, “Well he _does_ enjoy hitting things, but he’s actually pretty good at these kinds of games too.”

“Inquisitor!”

Mahanon turned to see Dorian hurrying towards them, yet another book under his arm. He sighed softly to himself; he knew that Dorian approaching him in a hurry could only mean he had found something out about his illness and for once Mahanon had been succeeding in forgetting about it for a time. He didn’t welcome the reminder. “What is it?” he asked.

Dorian glanced briefly to Cullen, then back to Mahanon before saying, “I think it’s better I show you, if you’re not too busy.”

“It’s all right. I lost anyway,” he said with a rueful smile to Cullen who was staring wide-eyed at the pair of them. “You should go challenge Bull. He’s probably just drinking in the tavern anyway.”

“A bit early to be drinking isn’t it?” Cullen asked with a frown.

Mahanon shrugged. “That’s a shem custom, though he _has_ been drinking more than usual lately,” he mused aloud. “Go challenge him. Give him something to do besides drinking Rocky under the table,” he said with a wave before turning and following Dorian back inside the keep.

“You’re a cruel man, Lavellan. Elf, whatever,” Dorian said as he led the way inside then down the stairs to Mahanon’s smoke room and Dorian’s private study.

“Why?” he asked, though there was a smile playing about his lips.

Dorian glanced back over his shoulder and said, “I know that you’ve heard Bull playing mental chess with Solas and actually holding his own.”

Mahanon grinned. “But Cullen hasn’t,” he said.

“Cruel.”

Mahanon just laughed. He was actually looking forward to seeing how this played out. “So what is it you have to show me?” he asked, leaning against the table, arms crossed.

“Not so much show as tell, but I didn’t think you would want to hear it in the gardens there.” Mahanon nodded, glad that Dorian had at least that much discretion. “This family I found that was wiped out? They were doing research in the Western Approach.”

“Research on what?” Mahanon asked.

“I’m not sure, the language is very archaic and there are no specifics; no one really wrote down what they were researching back then. It added to their mystery, though I think it more likely they were just afraid someone would steal their research and thus their fame.”

“So you want us to go to the Western Approach?”

“Yes. And more specifically, I want to come with you.”

Mahanon rose an eyebrow. “Why? Last time we were headed out that way you flatly refused to go. Not that I would have invited you, but you said the sun would ruin your complexion.”

“Yes, that is an unfortunate side effect of travelling to such a sun-blasted land; my complexion has suffered enough with this wind and ice, I can’t imagine a desert will do it much good. But sacrifices must be made! And I’m sure you would agree that finding a potential cure for you is far more important than what I hope will be a temporary discolouration of my complexion.”

“You do know that I never intend for this to get out, that you won’t be made famous or whatever for saving the Inquisitor or whatever you’re imagining,” Mahanon said.

That seemed to take Dorian aback for a moment. “Is that why you think I’m doing this?” he eventually asked. “For fame? I can assure you if that were my driving force I would not be down here on the arse of the world freezing my nipples off.” Softer, he said, “I know you still don’t trust me Lavellan and that’s fine. But when I said that this was now my top priority I meant it. I joined the Inquisition and stayed here despite your wishes to the contrary because it was the right thing to do. And doing this, doing all I can to ensure the Inquisitor stays alive to continue fighting Corypheus? Well, I consider it even more important. Yes, I’m hoping I can show you that not all of my countrymen live up to their horrific reputations, but if I can keep you alive at least long enough to save us all, then that will be enough.”

Mahanon nodded and looked away, feeling a pang of guilt. Logically he knew that Dorian wasn’t like the slavers he had come across or any of the Venatori they fought, but it was so ingrained to not trust anyone who so blatantly loved Tevinter that it was hard to see that sometimes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course you can come if you wish it. Do you have any idea where abouts in the Western Approach we should be looking?”

“I do, in fact,” Dorian said. Taking a scroll from the rack he unrolled it to reveal a map and used a book to hold down each corner. “Around about here,” he said pointing to an area on it. “There’s probably only ruins now. At least I’m hoping there are ruins and it’s not all buried in sand. But that used to be their villa. If there’s anything that can give us some hint as to what they were researching we’ll find it there.”

Mahanon nodded and was silent for a few seconds before saying, “It’s a slim chance, isn’t it?”

Dorian sighed. “Yes,” he admitted, though Mahanon could tell he didn’t really want to. “Things survive better in a desert climate than somewhere like the Hinterlands but it was still a long time ago, long enough for buildings to collapse. If any writings are to survive they would have to be kept in the perfect environmental conditions. It’s a slim chance but right now it’s the best lead I’ve found.”

“Of course,” Mahanon said. He pushed away from the table and said, “I’ll call a council meeting this afternoon to discuss an expedition out there. If anyone asks it’s research you’re doing into Corypheus, trying to find something we can use against him. This family you’re researching is potentially his family. We may not get the chance until after the Arbor Wilds but we’ll see. I’ll let you know,” he said before taking his leave.

Mahanon was torn; he had to stop Corypheus, that took priority, but what if in doing so he lost the chance at finding a cure? If he managed to defeat Corypheus but died soon after he thought he could trust  his friends to take what they may find to his clan, but truthfully he knew that by that stage it would probably be too late. The letters from his Keeper did not list how many had died or who nor did they comment on her own health but Mahanon had a feeling that it was likely she was also feeling the effects by now.

His head was filled with such thoughts as he caught up a servant and asked them to summon Leliana and Cullen to the war room (Josephine he could talk to himself on the way). He was striding towards the war room himself when he was forced to stop suddenly as Mother Giselle stepped in front of him.

“My Lord Inquisitor,” she said. “It’s good of you to speak with me.”

“But I-”

“I have news regarding one of your… companions. The Tevinter.”

Mahanon sighed; clearly the woman was going to speak her concerns regardless of whether he was busy or not. Still, he was curious about what these concerns might be that the Mother would think she was privy to but he was not.

“Tell me it’s nothing bad,” he said.

“If you have reservations about his presence here, I share them. But this is another matter. I have been in contact with his family: House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?”

“Not really. He’s mentioned his family when I spoke to him about what it’s like in Tevinter but hedged around any more personal questions. I suspect they’re not on good terms so I let the matter be.”

“Yes. I believe you’re correct. The family sent a letter describing the estrangement from their son and pleading for my aid. They’ve asked to arrange a meeting, quietly, without telling him. They fear it’s the only way he’ll come. Since you seem to be on good terms with the young man of late, I’d hoped... “

Mahanon’s eyes narrowed at that. There was a time, perhaps, where he would not have thought twice about deceiving the Vint into doing something. But he was trying to build up trust and a rapport with him now. He was sure that, as much as Dorian was willing to help him, he was just as wary of trusting Mahanon as Mahanon was of trusting him. So, “If you think I’m going to trick Dorian into meeting his family…”

Mother Giselle sighed “I feared you might say that. The family will send a retainer to meet the young man at the Redcliffe tavern to take him onward. If he truly does not wish this reunion he can always end the matter there. I pray you change your mind, Inquisitor. Perhaps their letter will persuade you. If there is any chance of success in this, it behooves us to act.”

Mahanon took the letter and glanced over it. It seemed to corroborate what the Mother told him, that his family wanted to reach out and talk to him and they did seem worried, though whether it was just the fact that their heir was in danger or genuine concern Mahanon couldn’t tell. He would take the letter to Dorian, he decided, and leave it up to him. After the council meeting.

 

*

 

“What do you mean our scouts are disappearing?” Mahanon demanded angrily.

“Just that,” Leliana answered calmly. “Pairs are sent out and they do not return.”

“What of Harding?” Mahanon asked.

“She’s still fine as of our last report.”

Mahanon sighed heavily and, leaning against the table, ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll set out in the morning for the Wilds then,” he said flatly.

“I don’t think that’s wise, Inquisitor,” Cullen said.

Mahanon looked up with a raised eyebrow. “Our scouts are going missing and you don’t think it’s wise to investigate?”

“No, not that. It needs investigating but I recommend sending the Chargers in. They’ve worked with Harding’s scouts before. This could be a trap set by Corypheus to lure you in. The Chargers can investigate and bulk up Harding’s remaining scouts. Depending on what they report back we’ll know how to act.”

Mahanon grimaced; he didn’t like sending others in to do what he felt he should be doing, especially not after what he had experienced in the Fade at Adamant, but what Cullen said made sense. Mahanon’s anchor was still the best weapon they had against Corypheus so it was best to use it from a position of strength rather than lured into a situation of the enemy’s making.

“Very well,” Mahanon said, “I’m sure they’d welcome some action and Krem would likely be happy to see Harding again,” he added with a smile.

“Oh? Is there something there?” Josephine asked, her eyes near glittering with curiosity.

Mahanon grinned. “Seems to be. They’re pretty private about it though. Much like an ambassador and a certain bearded warden?”

Josephine turned pink up to her ears and stammered out, “I-I don’t know what you mean, Inquisitor.”

Leliana giggled. “Why Josie, you’re practically glowing.” Which of course made her even more red.

“I-I am not!”

“How did you learn about that, Lavellan? I thought the only ones to know were the two themselves and my spies,” Leliana asked.

“Bull told me. His ben hassrath training comes in handy for more than just fighting and predicting enemy movements. He’s guessed who’s seeing who all over the keep. He-”

“Can we get on with it please?” Cullen cut in.

Mahanon grinned and winked at Cullen, saying “Sure thing.” He knew that the man was likely worried that his secrets would be revealed next, though the fact of the matter was, he was one of the few Bull hadn’t been able to crack yet, at least with regards to a love interest. Mahanon could guess but it would remain only a guess. However, the way he reacted just then made him sure there was _someone_. He would have to bring that up with Bull in their next post-coital gossip session.

“As much as I hate sending someone in my place, I think sending the Chargers is a good idea,” Mahanon said. “It will also free me up for another investigation out to the Western Approach.”

“What’s in the Western Approach that we need to see to?” Cullen asked.

“Dorian has been doing some research and may have found references to something that could help us with Corypheus. In truth, I don’t understand all of what he was going on about but he seemed to believe, strongly, that it was worth investigating. I told him it would likely have to wait until after whatever happens in the Arbor Wilds, but we may have time now.”

“Any advantage is a good advantage, and Dorian’s research skills are second to none,” Josephine commented.

“I could send some of my people out there, Inquisitor. There’s no need for you to go yourself. If Dorian tells me what you’ll be looking for-”

“No, it’s fine,” he cut in. “Bad enough I’m sending the Chargers out in my place, I would rather not send someone else out to do this as well. Besides, we barely did anything to secure the place from the Venatori last time we were there, it would probably be good to do so now while we have the down time.”

“I agree,” Cullen said. “There is a keep there, Griffon Wing Keep, that is currently controlled by the Venatori and would be useful as an outpost for our forces. If you’re able to take that while you’re there it would be beneficial.”

Mahanon smiled and nodded, glad that Cullen had suggested another reason to go there to further legitimize his personal wish to. He felt bad about hedging the truth as to his reasons, especially to these three, but he more feared what would happen if they actually found out the truth. “We’ll look into it.”

“Before you go then, Inquisitor, there are some other matters to deal with,” Josephine said.

 

*

 

The council meeting seemed to drag on and on and all the while the letter from Dorian’s father seemed to be burning inside Mahanon’s pocket. The business that Josephine wanted to go through before he left would be enough to make a mountain. Even Leliana started to appear bored and Cullen was massaging his temples openly now.

“I think the rest of this can wait until later,” Mahanon cut in as Josephine started to bring up yet another point that needed his ‘urgent attention’.

“But-”

“Yes, Josie, let’s give it a rest for now. I’m sure the remaining requests and marriage proposals can wait,” Leliana said.

“Yes! That! It’s not like I won't be cooped up here all over again reporting on what happened as soon as I get back anyway, we can deal with a few more then. And if there’s something that can be done in writing then just leave it on the desk in my room as always,” Mahanon said and, without waiting for another protest to be made, spun around and strode quickly from the room.

He was hungry, but wanted to speak with Dorian first, to see if he wanted to meet with his family or not. Checking the library, Mahanon found Dorian in his usual alcove, reading up on… well something, Mahanon didn’t really care what the book was.

“Dorian?” he said.

The man looked up, perfectly groomed eyebrows rising in surprise. “Lavellan. Truth be told I didn’t expect to see you before tomorrow.”

“There’s been a… development. A letter actually, one you need to see.”

“A letter? A naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?”

Mahanon rolled his eyes but he was starting to get used to Dorian’s constant flirting and innuendos. “Not exactly,” he said. “It’s from your father.”

That put the wind out of his sails. Dorian’s face visible dropped at that, his voice flat and emotionless as he said, “From my father. I see. And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell.”

“A meeting,” Mahanon said. “To talk.”

“Show me this letter,” Dorian demanded and Mahanon handed it over, leaning against a bookcase as he waited for him to read. He didn’t have to wait long; it wasn’t a long letter and Dorian was a fast reader. Instead he watched the man’s facial expressions, trying to remember the various things Bull had told him about reading people. An amused smirk at first, perhaps proud that his father acknowledged all previous attempts at communication were ignored. An eyebrow raised, maybe disbelieving the wish to talk. And then, finally, anger. Outrage even. Mahanon had guessed that last one would be seen; the letter had been quite condescending, especially calling Dorian a boy when he has been a man for many years now, Mahanon thought. As though he were a wilful child and nothing more.

It seemed Dorian shared his opinion. “I know my son? What my father knows of me could fill a thimble. This is so typical!” he raged. “I’m willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter.”

“He can try, but he won’t succeed. Not while I’m there, if you don’t mind me being there of course,” Mahanon said.

“He expects me to travel with Mother Giselle. Although Maker knows why he thinks I would.”

“If you like, we can go there before we head to the Western Approach. The Arbor Wilds has been delayed, again, so we have time,” Mahanon offered. He too wanted to see this through, to see just what Dorian’s father was playing at. He was, perhaps, a little nervous about meeting with another Tevinter mage, and a magister at that, but Dorian had not brought harm to him yet. Should his allegiance shift over the course of the meeting, then Mahanon would have Bull at least and probably someone else with him as backup.

“Yes,” Dorian agreed. “Let’s go. Let’s meet this so-called family retainer. If it’s a trap we escape and kill everyone! You’re good at that.”

“What? No I’m not!” Mahanon protested. A raised eyebrow was the only response. Mahanon sighed and said, “Well, I suppose, but they started it.”

“Regardless, if it’s not a trap, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his ‘wits end’.”

“So what’s the story between you two? I don’t mean to pry but if we’re going to walk into a trap I would rather know at least some of the history behind it. Is there some kind of bad blood between you?” Mahanon asked.

Dorian, to Mahanon’s surprise laughed. “Interesting turn of phrase,” he said. Mahanon tilted his head questioningly but Dorian did not elaborate. “But you’re correct. They don’t care for my choices, nor I for theirs.”

“But what choices? Was it just you didn’t like someone they tried to set you up with? Or something larger?”

“That too.”

Mahanon sighed a little but relented; Dorian obviously didn’t want to talk about the specifics and, really, Mahanon probably wouldn’t in his position either. It would be like Dorian suddenly demanding to know why Mahanon didn’t feel comfortable returning to his clan anymore, it cut too close to the heart of everything. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll travel to Redcliffe tomorrow to meet this retainer then. The Chargers will travel with us that far, they’re heading to the Arbor Wilds to support Harding and her scouts, then once your business is concluded we’ll go to the Western Approach, see what we can find. Sound good?”

Dorian gave a nod then, leaning sideways against the wall and looking out the window, sighed and said softly, “I wonder how much my father paid this man to wait around just in case I showed.” He grimaced and shook his head. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Mahanon left Dorian to his own thoughts then, intending to seek out Bull. Typically Inquisition forces travelled in groups of four and, heading into untamed territory, Mahanon thought it wise to continue that tradition. However it meant that he had to find a fourth person to travel with and that made him uneasy.

He found Bull and Krem walking the battlements talking, though they welcomed his arrival. Mahanon caught the two of them up on what Dorian had suggested, the war council meeting, and Mother Giselle’s manipulations, also informing Krem that he would be leading the Chargers out to meet Harding. As expected, the man seemed to light up at the news of meeting with the dwarf and Bull and Mahanon exchanged knowing glances. He also shared his concerns about finding a fourth companion, about having another person find out about his illness since it was getting harder and harder to hide. Whoever it was had to be someone he could trust with the secret.

“I wish you could make up the fourth person,” Mahanon lamented to Krem for perhaps the third time.

“And then who would keep the others out of trouble?” Krem said with a smile. “Especially since you stole the chief from us.”

“I didn’t _steal_ him. I just… appropriated him,” Mahanon said.

“I’m standing right here,” Bull said while Krem just snorted.

“Yes and looking incredibly majestic at the same time,” Mahanon cooed.

Bull, unable to resist, struck a pose, hands on hips and looking off into the distance.

“Seriously though,” he said, lowering his arms and leaning back against the stone wall. “Take Cassandra.”

“The Seeker? You don’t think she’d be a bit… forthright?” Krem asked.

“She did keep quiet about Cullen’s lyrium withdrawals,” Mahanon mused. Of course, Bull later told him that he had realised what was going on with the commander before Cassandra had told him but that was beside the point; she had only told Mahanon because he had walked in on them arguing about it. “I guess I could ask her,” Mahanon said. He levelled Bull with a look then, saying, “But no telling her until it’s unavoidable. With any luck I may not need to tell her at all.”

“With your luck?” Krem drawled.

“Hey, I can dream,” Mahanon pouted.

 

*

 

After bidding a boisterous farewell to the Chargers at the gates of Redcliffe, Mahanon, Bull, Dorian, and Cassandra approached the Gull and Lantern. Cassandra had been more than willing to accompany them, though she voiced some surprise at Mahanon’s choice of Dorian as a companion. At least until he told her that they would be meeting Dorian’s father in Redcliffe first.

Opening the doors at Gull and Lantern they found the place completely deserted.

“Uh oh. Nobody’s here. This doesn’t bode well,” Dorian said.

Mahanon agreed with that and said, “Bull, Cassandra, you two wait outside. Make sure no one comes in or out. We’ll shout if we need you.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, while Bull just nodded.

Together, Mahanon and Dorian enter the tavern and look around, Dorian with his staff ready and Mahanon with his daggers. Catching a glimpse of movement on the stairs, Mahanon hurried to the side to stand against the wall near the stair entrance, ready to attack from behind should he need to.

The man who walked past him, apparently unaware of his presence, was dressed finely. This retainer perhaps? Mahanon thought.

“Dorian,” the man said, his voice deep.

“Father,” Dorian replied, his voice flat. He glanced over the man’s shoulder to where Mahanon was standing and Mahanon could have cursed him; the man, Dorian’s father, now knew there was someone there, the element of surprise was lost. Still, neither mage made any move to attack and Dorian even put up his staff so Mahanon decided to sheath his daggers and step forwards. “So the whole story about the ‘family retainer’ was just… what? A smoke screen?” Dorian continued.

Halward glanced over his shoulder, following Dorian’s gaze, and his eyes widened slightly seeing Mahanon standing there. Mahanon though made no move to attack and instead leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching warily. “Then you were told,” Halward said. He turned slightly to face Mahanon as he said, “I apologize for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for you to be involved.”

Mahanon opened his mouth to reply but Dorian beat him to it, his voice near dripping with sarcasm as he said, “Of course not. Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think?” Mahanon smirked at that, amused despite himself. Dorian, however, was not amused. “What is this exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?”

Halward sighed. “This is how it has always been,” he said to Mahanon.

“Considering you lied to get him here, Dorian has every right to be furious,” Mahanon pointed out, already unimpressed.

“You don’t know the half of it! But maybe you should,” Dorian said, his voice turning almost calculating on that last sentence.

That seemed to almost frighten Halward as he quickly got out, “Dorian, there’s no need to-”

He was cut off as Dorian interjected. “I prefer the company of men,” he said. “My father disapproves.”

Mahanon frowned. “The company of men? What do you mean?”

“Did I stutter? Men and the company thereof. As in sex. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

Mahanon’s eyes narrowed, irritated at the condescending tone Dorian took. “Of course I’ve heard of it, Dorian. I know you are aware of mine and Bull’s relationship, half of Thedas probably is. Your preferences are not exactly news, even for me.”

That seemed to settle Dorian at least a little, though he still demanded, “And why should it be? Why should anyone care? I have no idea.”

“This display is uncalled for,” Halward said.

Mahanon bristled at that though, once more, it was Dorian who answered. “No, it _is_ called for,” he snapped. “You called for it by luring me here.”

“This is not what I wanted,” Halward lamented and, Mahanon thought, he actually sounded sad by the fact.

Dorian either didn’t notice or didn’t care, responding, “I’m never what you wanted, Father, or have you forgotten?” before stalking away, to lean his arms against a counter.

Mahanon pushed away and followed standing to one side of Dorian. He was somewhat confused. “That’s a big concern in Tevinter then?” he asked. “Among my clan it’s frowned upon, but I’ve never really known of it driving people away.”

“Only if you’re trying to live up to an impossible standard. Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distil the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. The perfect leader. It means every perceived flaw - every aberration - is deviant and shameful. It must be hidden.”

“So who you sleep with is the issue here?” Mahanon said, still trying to get an understanding.

“That’s not _all_ it’s about,” Dorian said.

Halward interjected then, seemingly unwilling to let the explanations, the _shame_ , continue. “Dorian, please, if you’ll only listen to me.”

“Why? So you can spout more convenient lies? _He_ taught me to hate blood magic. Remember when you asked about blood magic and I said “The resort of a weak mind”? Those are _his_ words.” Dorian spins around to face his father, glaring. “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life? You tried to _change_ me!” Mahanon glanced between Dorian and Halward at that; Dorian sounded truly hurt, his hurt naked in a way that he had never allowed it to be before.

“I only wanted what was best for you!” Halward protested.

“You wanted the best for _you_! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!” Dorian snarled before turning and leaned once more against the table.

Seeing their reactions, seeing how much this upset Dorian, Mahanon began to think that he shouldn’t have showed him the letter at all, that they shouldn’t have bothered coming. “Perhaps we should go,” he said quietly to Dorian.

Dorian nodded slowly and pushed away from the table. He takes two steps, then turns to his father saying only, “Tell me why you came.”

“If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition…” Halward started.

Mahanon narrowed his eyes at that, irritated that he would think joining the Inquisition somehow shameful. Though, he supposed, in Tevinter it very well could be.

“You didn’t. I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do. Once I had a father who would have known that,” Dorian said, and this time he made real progress towards the door before Halward spoke again.

“Once I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed.” Dorian paused at that and half turned back, looking over his shoulder. Mahanon supposed that it was probably rare his magister of a father would ever admit that he was in the wrong. “I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up at that and he looked to Mahanon, as though seeking his opinion. Mahanon, for his part, was torn; Magister Halward was already in low standing with Mahanon for what he was, but for what he had done, from what he had heard, it made it all so much worse. But there was hope in Dorian’s eyes; it was possible that the man had shown hope before around Skyhold but since Mahanon had avoided him until recently he had not seen it. If this gave him a chance… Mahanon nodded towards Halward, then stepped back, prepared to wait by the door so father and son could speak privately.

 

*

 

Dorian was perhaps about three hours with his father and, after only about half an hour, Mahanon got bored and wandered outside to find Bull and Cassandra. After catching them up on what had gone on inside (omitting what he felt were personal details that Dorian probably didn’t want shared), he pulled out a pair of dice and started to teach them a Dalish dice game that hunters often played while camped away from the clan. By the time Dorian had emerged Bull had picked it up and was holding his own easily while Cassandra was left fumbling and Mahanon was trying out his cheats to see if Bull with his sharp eye could spot them. He was proud that most were not noticed.

Packing up once more the four of them took their leave of Redcliffe and started west. With a motion, Mahanon indicated that Bull should take Cassandra and lead away; he wanted to talk to Dorian more about what had happened but didn’t want the man to feel uncomfortable.

“So. Now you know,” Dorian said.

“Somewhat. You said he tried to change you?” Mahanon said, staring at the ground as they walked.

“Out of desperation,” Dorian said. “I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavoury private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. You said such preferences were frowned upon with your people?”

“Yes, though we are not expected to keep them hidden,” Mahanon said. “I had a relationship with the Keeper’s First. It was allowed because I was young. Depending on what happened within the clan I may have been allowed to continue it but I was warned that I may be expected to partner with a woman to have children. Our Keeper said she would be forced to choose someone if I didn’t.”

“And that was acceptable to you?” Dorian asked, disbelief in his tone.

Mahanon gave a one shouldered shrug. “Any girl who agreed to pair with me would know of my preferences, there are very few secrets in a clan. If she was willing to pair with me despite that, the least I could do was try to get her with children. If I was to return now, with everything,” he waved a hand over his chest, “I suspect it would be brought up as a duty.”

“And you would do it?”

“I guess. Good thing I’m needed more here than there, then huh?” he said with a half smile. “I suppose it would be different for you though. For me it was accepted, unusual but accepted. If it was so hated…”

“He was going to do a blood ritual on me, alter my mind, make me… acceptable. I found out. I left,” Dorian said.

Mahanon froze mid step and stared at Dorian, the implications of that statement rolling around in his mind. A blood ritual? The one who had apparently taught Dorian that blood magic was only for the weak? And to change him against his will? Mahanon could well imagine how he would have reacted to such an act, and it wouldn’t have been by simply leaving; there would have been a lot more violence. And here he had been, accusing Dorian of being a blood mage, of wanting to use blood magic. Once again his ignorance and closed mind had made him a fool. “Can… Can blood magic actually do that?” Mahanon asked, stunned, continuing to walk again. Truthfully his only experience with blood magic was the odd rogue mage who used it to amplify their magic, and what he had witnessed at Adamant to bind demons.

“Maybe. It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think that he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal.” Mahanon grimaced at that, imagining how he would feel had his Keeper been willing to try such a thing on him to get him to change something so intrinsic about himself. “Part of me has always hoped he wouldn’t go through with it,” Dorian continued. “If he had, I can’t even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”

“I don’t know, you might be a little less vain and insufferable,” Mahanon said, a half smile tugging at his lips to let Dorian know he was only joking.

Dorian gave a bark of laughter at that. “Perhaps,” he said. “But then you wouldn’t be enjoying my delightful company right now.”

Mahanon was about to reply but feeling that dreaded tell-tale tremor in his chest muscles, he clenched his teeth and remained silent, trying to hold it down. He had become practised at doing so, though usually always with the cost of having a worse coughing fit afterwards. Dorian, perhaps expecting a reply he never got, glanced across and, taking one look at Mahanon’s facial expression said, “Another coughing fit is coming?”

Mahanon gave a tight nod. Dorian glanced at the sky then called out, “We should probably make camp.”

“Why? It’s still early,” Cassandra said, pausing and looking back.

Bull looked back too and, seeing Mahanon’s expression, his pointed look, nodded and said, “It’s been a long day. We could all do with a rest.”

“Oh, very well,” Cassandra said.

The four of them moved a little away from the road to where there was a flat area. Inquisition forces had camped here before and there was already a stack of wood and a fire pit set aside. They were far from the only people who used the campsite of course, but thankfully those who used it last had re-stacked more wood ready for the next traveller. By the time they reached it Mahanon was already starting to cough lightly and it only remained light through sheer force of will. He was breathing quickly through his nose, feeling like he couldn’t catch his breath. While he helped set up the tents he said not a word, jaw clenched tightly closed, refusing to give in. None of them spoke much, though Mahanon was aware of Cassandra watching the three of them as though trying to work something out.

Straightening after hammering a tent peg into the ground, the world faded to grey and a roaring was heard in his ears.

“Woah, easy there Kadan,” Bull said quietly, his hand on Mahanon’s elbow, keeping him upright.

Like a trigger, first one cough was released, then another, then it was all Mahanon could do to suck air in between the coughing. He was aware of Bull guiding him to sit, of Dorian searching through his bags no doubt looking for his incense, of Cassandra calling his name, demanding to know what was wrong, but all he could concentrate was getting enough air in to satisfy the coughing and not black out in the meantime. The incense burner found and taken into his tent, Bull picked him up like he weighed nothing at all and carried him inside. “Lean over it, there you go,” he heard his deep voice saying, the sound of it soothing some of Mahanon’s panic. “Just breathe, Kadan, just breathe.”

 _‘I’m trying!’_ Mahanon thought angrily, but he didn’t have the breath to voice it.

“I can try healing it if you’ll let me,” Dorian was saying. “I should be at least able to ease some of the pain.”

Mahanon gave a nod, giving his permission.

“Can someone tell me what is going on?” Cassandra was demanding from the entrance to the tent.

“It’s your call, boss,” Bull said.

Mahanon knew what he would prefer, but he also knew what Bull wanted and what was wise, the later two being the same thing. Closing his eyes in resignation, he gave a short nod. He hated it, hated yet more people, especially people he respected like Cassandra, knowing about this weakness but he had to trust that she would say nothing. That was why he had invited her along after all, as opposed to Sera or Varric.

Bull looked to Dorian and said, “If he gets worse, or you’re not able to get it to stop, come get me.”

“Of course,” Dorian replied, and with that Bull ducked out of the tent, motioning for Cassandra to follow.

Dorian was silent after they left, focussing his magic on Mahanon. True to his word, he did ease some of the burning pain, but the coughing and gasping continued and there was the strong metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

“Lavellan, your lungs are filling with blood faster than you can clear them with the coughing, which is why you can’t get your breath,” Dorian said, his voice tight. “If you’ll let me, I want to try and force the blood out with a… a shove I guess. It will likely hurt but I won't be touching the foul magic so it shouldn’t make things worse.”

Mahanon nodded again; after all, what did he have to lose? He was no stranger to pain in his chest and lungs any more and even his stomach, back and core muscles seemed to hurt on a daily basis from the coughing. Dorian stood and fetched a cloth, holding it to Mahanon who took it and held it over his mouth.

“It will probably feel like a solid punch. Let me know when you’re ready,” Dorian said.

Mahanon really didn’t need to be asked twice and instantly nodded quickly. No sooner had he finished than there was a force, a blow inside his chest. All of Mahanon’s precious air was forced up and out of his mouth, causing him to gag and cough again. He managed to suck in two breaths of air before he was struck again and he vomited up even more blood. A third strike seemed to only bring up a little and then, once he was actually able to convince his lungs to work properly again, he took his first deep breath in what had probably been weeks. He was still coughing a little but it was less, the incense that filled the tent actually seeming to get into his lungs and do its job. A warmth suffused his muscles, not the painful burning he was used to but a soothing warmth and he realized Dorian was still using magic on him.

“How do you feel?” Dorian asked quietly, his hands still on Mahanon as he kept the muscles warm and soothed, stilling all but the worst of the tremors.

“Better,” Mahanon said, his voice strained but at least he was able to speak. “Much better. Thank you Dorian,” he said sincerely.

Dorian gave a small smile and a nod. “You should rest now,” he said. “It hasn’t fixed the problem, far from it I’m afraid, but I can keep soothing the muscles in the meantime.”

“Thank you Dorian. I mean it,” Mahanon said as he wiped the cloth over his mouth, ridding it of the last of the blood and laid down. He didn’t look at it to see how much was there, he didn’t want to know. Instead he just folded it over and clenched it in his fist.

“Oh, pish posh. It’s the least I could do after you helped me today. Now rest.”

 

*

 

Bull and Cassandra walked a short ways from the camp where they could speak without bothering Mahanon; Bull knew that his Kadan was reluctant to let anyone else know so he figured it would be better if he told the Seeker what was going on where the Inquisitor wouldn’t hear.

“So what is this? An illness? Shouldn’t he be resting at Skyhold?” Cassandra demanded as soon as they stopped walking.

“Something of the sort. Dorian seems to think it more of a curse than a legitimate illness, however. And rest won’t help it. What did he tell you the reason was for us going to the Western Approach?” Bull asked.

“To kill time mostly,” Cassandra said. “But also to take a keep that would be helpful to the Inquisition. I’m guessing that’s not actually the case?”

“No, that’s the reason. At least part of it. The other part is to search some Tevinter ruin or other that Dorian seems to think may have clues on a way to lift this curse, a cure.”

“Then why is this secret? If others knew, the whole of the Inquisition forces could…” Cassandra trailed off seeing Bull already shake his head. “I think you better start from the beginning,” she said instead.

“The way he tells it, it began before either of us met him, in his clan, killing the children and weakest elders. He was sent to the Conclave to find someone to help them. For Lavellan, the coughing started after Haven when he was caught in that avalanche, though whether that triggered it or it would’ve started anyway who knows. It’s continued to get worse till it’s where you see it, weakening, coughing blood, unable to breathe properly. As for why no one knows, it’s cause Lavellan doesn’t want em to know.”

Cassandra glanced back to the tent where they had left Lavellan, worry written all over her face. “Most of the Inquisition knows something is wrong but either no one knows what or those who do are remaining particularly close-lipped about it. And then, just when things start looking like something should be said, he bounces back full of life and energy as though nothing is wrong. I had put it down to worry, the stress of the position, not… this,” she said.

“He remembered how you kept Cullen’s withdrawal quiet and trusts you not to say anything ‘bout this either. He’s worried about how it will affect the image of the Inquisition, and what troubles it may bring down on his clan in their weakened state,” Bull said; he was personally of the opinion that they should tell as many people as possible and fuck what they thought of him if only to find a cure, but he would respect his Mahanon’s wishes on this. At least for now. Mahanon was slow to trust anyone with anything private and personal, and this was no exception. He just hoped it wouldn’t wind up ending with his death.

 

*

 

Lavellan was laying on the cot in the tent, incense burner on the floor beside him with its foul smoke wafting over him. His coughing had eased and Dorian’s magic was helping to sooth the pain, but he still felt exhausted. He couldn’t get Dorian’s words out of his head, about how he had nearly been subjected to a blood magic ritual by his own father, someone he had once trusted entirely.

“Dorian, do you think… do you think your father would have some idea about this illness, this curse, whatever it is?” he asked eventually.

“Once I would have said definitely not personally, but now?” Mahanon heard Dorian sigh. “If he doesn’t, he could probably find out. Do you want me to make some enquiries? Discretely of course.”

“Dorian, someone as flamboyant as you, doesn’t know the meaning of ‘discrete’,” Mahanon said, but he said it with a tired smile to let Dorian know he was joking. “If you would that would be good, thank you. What… happened in there? With him?”

“He says we’re alike. Too much pride. Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

“I don’t know if I would be able to either,” Mahanon allowed. “Are you all right?”

“No. Not really. Thank you for bringing me out there. I mean we were going out anyway but it was still a detour. It wasn’t what I expected but… it’s something. Maker knows what you must think of me now. After that whole display.”

“Truthfully? I have a lot more respect for you now than I ever did before, coming from that. And Cullen was right, we are very much alike ourselves. Besides, I have to keep you around for at least one reason: you’re good at research and I hate reading.”

Dorian gave a bitter laugh at that. “Just the one? My wounded pride.” Mahanon smiled and at that moment the tent flap open and Bull ducks inside. “At any rate,” Dorian continued, “time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of a day. Join me later, if you’re feeling up to it.” And with that he left, leaving the Inquisitor to Bull to look after.


	29. The Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon and Co go to the Western Approach following up on a clue Dorian found that might have answers on how to cure the blood magic curse that is killing the Inquisitor and his clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some sexy times and a flying Inquisitor.

For all that Dorian had wanted to come to the Western Approach with them (and, Mahanon knew that it made sense to bring him) his complaining was incessant; the sun was to hot, the nights too cold, the sand got in his shoes, the water tasted of leather, there was no end to it!

Mahanon, on the other hand, was quite enjoying himself. Yes, it was hot and yes the sand got _everywhere_ , but the dry heat seemed to be doing something with his lungs; he had only had one coughing fit since arriving and even that was mild and considerate enough to come on about lunch time so it didn’t really hold them up at all. That was a nice change.

“I think I know what your problem is, Dorian,” Bull said suddenly as the four of them climbed a sand dune rise.

“I have only the one?” Dorian asked.

“Sand, heat, sand, sunburn, heat, sand,” Mahanon said dryly.

Bull ignored him to say, “You see a man who’s burned out, who left his people and entire life behind… and for what?”

Mahanon chose to stay silent hearing that, thinking that maybe Bull was actually saying something meaningful instead of teasing the mage as was his want.

Dorian, however, was having none of it. “You’re not suggesting we’re similar.”

“How’s that mirror treating you? Pretty picture, isn’t it?” Bull said, and Mahanon could hear the amusement in Bull’s voice even if his face was deadpan.

“I may vomit,” Dorian said, his voice the very epitome of prissy.

“Wait, wait, I’ll flex a little for you. Make it easier.”

Mahanon burst into laughter at that even as Cassandra let off one of her signature groans, even more so when Bull followed through on his words, pausing and flexing those huge qunari muscles of his. Dorian ignored them all and kept walking up the hill, though he froze reaching the top.

“Do you suppose that’s the keep that we were told to check out?” he called out.

Mahanon hurried up to stand next to him and, shading his eyes, squinted across the sandy landscape.

“Looks like it. Either that or it’s a mirage, the wavy way it looks,” Mahanon said.

“We should come up with a plan on how to take it. There are only four of us,” Cassandra said. “Perhaps we should wait for reinforcements.”

“Na, that’s boring! I say we charge it now,” Bull said.

“Of course the one with horns wants to charge,” Dorian said dryly.

“We wait until nightfall,” Mahanon said. “It will be cooler to fight by then. In the meantime we can pick off any patrols, make it easier for later.”

“You are determined to charge that place without support, aren’t you,” Cassandra said.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Mahanon said.

“You have a strange taste of fun.”

“Hey, boss. I got an idea!”

“This I’ve got to hear,” Dorian muttered.

“When we come up to a group of enemies, I pick you up and toss you behind them and you go all stabby stabby while I hammer them from the front!”

“Yeah!”

“No!” Cassandra interjected, cutting in to Mahanon’s enthusiastic agreement. “You’re the Inquisitor, you can’t just go… flying over the top of people.”

“Sure, sure,” Mahanon said, waving a dismissive hand to Cassandra while walking close to Bull and saying under his breath, “Let’s do it.” He looked around and, spotting a patrol just leaving from the keep, pointed. “Them,” he said.

Bull nodded and the pair of them charged, ignoring the shouted “Wait!” from behind them. Mahanon could hear both Cassandra and Dorian hurrying to catch up but with Bull’s long legs and Mahanon’s natural speed, they easily kept their head start on them, even gaining a few meters.

“Come on, pretty boy! Let’s see what that instrument of yours can do!” Bull called over his shoulder to Dorian. Whatever Dorian said in reply was lost in the rush but Mahanon felt a small bubble of jealousy begin till he quashed it down, focussing on the Venatori in front of them. They were spotted now (hard to miss a charging qunari).

When they were perhaps a hundred meters from them, Bull and Mahanon stopped. The Venatori continued rushing towards them but Bull rested his warhammer head down in the sand and knelt, cupping his hands. Mahanon stood in front of him and stepped backwards, up into the cupped hands, daggers drawn and ready.

“One,” Bull counted, waiting for the Venatori to come closer. “Two.” Nearly. “THREE!” he shouted and with a heave, Mahanon flew upwards into the sky. His body twisting like a cat’s, he somersaulted over the charging Venatori and landed on his feet behind them just as Bull picked up his hammer again.  

Two of the Venatori went down by Mahanon’s daggers as they stared at him, stunned by the aerials, and one by Bull’s hammer before the other two thought to act. They retreated, running back to the keep. Bull gave a roar and charged after them, but Mahanon remained where he was; Bull was more than capable of taking care of two fleeing Venatori on his own.

“I’ve never known them to flee before,” Dorian said as he and Cassandra finally caught up. Cassandra had her sword drawn but re-sheathed it unbloodied with a disgusted grunt.

“They’ve probably never come up against a charging qunari and a flying elf before, either,” Mahanon said, grinning from ear to ear. “Next time I want to use the mark on them while I’m still in the air!”

 

*

 

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing!” Dorian shouted as he was forced to duck away from a large swing Bull made, smashing the head of a Venatori clear off that had been coming close to skewering Dorian.

“Dirty,” Bull said, taking the time to thrust his hips suggestively at Dorian before charging another enemy.

“Vishante kaffas! I meant your weapon!”

“Sure you did.”

Mahanon scowled as he ducked under a swordsman’s swing and, twirling around, buried his daggers into the man’s kidneys. The sun was setting now, it would be difficult to see any further patrols so this would be the last one they attacked before making camp. The plan was to catch a few hours sleep before attacking in the hours before dawn.

Setting the camp up on top of a sand dune gave them a good line of sight of anyone approaching which was better than staying hidden at the moment; they had been picking off patrols all day, those in the keep already knew they were out here.

“That staff is in pretty good shape, Dorian,” Bull was saying as they all ate their dinner. Mahanon glared at the qunari; Cassandra had the first watch tonight but Mahanon had a feeling that at this rate, he and Bull wouldn’t be getting much sleep. “You spend a lot of time polishing it?” Bull finished, grinning like a child.

Dorian just groaned and stood, taking his plate into his tent.

Still grinning, Bull turned to see the dark look Mahanon was levelling at him. “What?” he asked all innocently; as if a ben hassrath wouldn’t know, Mahanon thought as he viciously stabbed the last of his meat with his fork.

Perhaps realizing he wasn’t likely to get much conversation from that angle, Bull turned to Cassandra then. “That was some solid work back there, Seeker,” he said and to Mahanon’s ear he sounded sincere.

“You as well,” Cassandra said. “Except for the part where you threw the Inquisitor through the air.”

“He _flew_! It was amazing, it-” He broke off suddenly at Cassandra’s raised eyebrow. “Ahem. You were pretty incredible too. The way you backhanded that guy with your shield and then damn near chopped him in half?” Cassandra was smiling now, clearly pleased with the praise. Perhaps judging he had buttered her up enough, Bull went on to ask, “So ah, any chance I could have the boss borrow your armour later? For, uh, personal reasons.”

Mahanon near choked on his meat at that, coughing even as Bull slapped him on the back, obviously pleased with himself. “You what?” Mahanon got out.

“No,” Cassandra said flatly.

“Come on, I’d clean it after,” Bull practically whined.

“Absolutely not.”

Bull let out a frustrated sigh but that was as far as he got before Mahanon slammed his plate aside and stood. Grabbing one of Bull’s horns he pulled, “We’re going to bed,” he snapped and, not letting go of Bull’s horn, pulled him along to their tent, forcing the big qunari to practically walk doubled over. Hearing the chuckling he made just caused Mahanon to get crankier and, with a shove of the horn, forced Bull inside the tent before him. Sparing only a glance back to Cassandra (and catching the small smile and blush she wore), he let the tent flap drop behind him.

Aware that there were people around and that tents offered absolutely no sound proofing, Mahanon hissed angrily, “Strip.”

“Mmm so forceful tonight,” Bull rumbled, ignoring what Mahanon said and coming towards him, crowding him towards the side of the tent.

Mahanon reached forward and gripped the leather straps across the qunari’s chest, pulling him close and down, kissing him forcefully before letting go. “You’re mine,” he growled. “Now, you heard me,” Mahanon said, looking pointedly down at Bull’s pants.

Bull smiled slowly, indulgently even, and took a single step back. In a matter of moments his ‘harness’ and pants had dropped to the floor. Mahanon sucked his lower lip in, chewing it a little. No matter how long they were together, he didn’t think he would ever get used to just how _big_ Bull was. Big, but still perfectly proportioned, he thought with a blush.

Bull stepped towards him once more and gently, softly, began undoing Mahanon’s belt then pushed his pants down his hips so they fell in a pile on the floor. Reaching around behind him, he cupped his arse, massaging the cheeks. “Now what, boss?” he asked.

“Um…” Mahanon stuttered, thrown off. Angry. He was supposed to be angry. Bull had been spending the whole day flirting with everyone, even their enemies (“Too sexy to have to cut down.”) but not once did he say something of the like to Mahanon. That flared his jealousy up again! Reaching out he placed his palms on Bull’s chest and pushed. Bull, for his part, allowed it, stepping backwards until he sat on the cot. Not once did he let go of his grip on Mahanon’s arse which of course pulled Mahanon down to sit on his lap.

Bull leaned in for a kiss but Mahanon pulled away, scowling when that only made Bull grin. He let go of his arse and instead caught both of Mahanon’s wrists and brought them around behind him, easily holding them both trapped in one of his hands while the other went back to kneading his arse.

Growling with frustration, Mahanon threw himself forward to be caught by Bull’s broad chest and, mouth open, clamped down on the base of his neck hard enough to make the qunari grunt a little and readjust his hold on the elf. Mahanon heard Bull chuckle at his efforts, so he bit harder even as he pressed his hips forward, rubbing both their trapped penises between them. Mahanon knew what he wanted, he wanted to claim Bull as his, in every way possible, in a way that would leave no doubt to anyone.

Rising on his knees he tried to position himself over Bull’s penis. “Woah, easy there,” Bull said, and one hand on the hip and the one holding his arms moved Mahanon backwards a little.

“Why not?” Mahanon demanded. “You’ll flirt with anyone that moves but when it actually comes to being here with me you’re not interested?”

“You force yourself onto me now and you’ll get hurt,” Bull said seriously. He pressed a finger against Mahanon’s hole to make his point and the elf wriggled a little uncomfortably. “Hop up and I’ll help you get ready.” Mahanon frowned a little, considering saying no, but then he knew Bull knew what he was talking about, he was always careful not to let him tear or anything like that, and even when they played very rough no blood was ever drawn.

“All right,” Mahanon eventually said and, when Bull let go of his hands, he pushed away and stood. Further away now he saw the bruise he had left on Bull’s neck and smiled smugly, proud of himself; tomorrow there would be a visual reminder of their relationship! He watched as Bull knelt down by his pack and dug around in it before coming up with a small black bag.

“Here you go,” Bull said, tossing it over.

Mahanon caught it and heard clinking inside it. Opening it he looked inside then rose an eyebrow to Bull. “You really do come prepared, don’t you,” he said, pulling the vial of oil out and setting it on the floor next to the cot. Next he reached in and pulled out a string of beads, staring at them. “Dawnstone?” he asked.

“It’s pretty,” Bull said in a defensive tone, reminiscent of when he was wearing that ridiculous dress.

Looking closer, Mahanon saw what looked like golden runes carved into each stone, each one slightly different. “What are these markings?” he asked.

Bull held a hand out so Mahanon handed them over, not resisting when Bull also snagged his wrist and pulled him closer. “Lightning runes, pressure activated. Each one a little stronger.”

“You-you put lightning runes on something that goes in- in my arse?” Mahanon squeaked.

“Well, I didn’t. Dagna did.”

“Dagna knows about this?!” Oh why couldn’t a fade rift open now and swallow him up! He was fine with others knowing he was in a relationship with Bull, but when it came to the details he was significantly less fine.

“Yeah. Cute girl. Bit too over-excitable though. Went to see her afterwards, tell her how it went, how we didn’t get past the second bead.”

Oh, hello anger, there you are, Mahanon thought as he scowled at Bull despite the embarrassed flush creeping up his face. “Let go,” he growled, giving his caught wrist a tug. It was useless of course - he wasn’t able to evade Bull’s grasp unless Bull himself wanted him to - but it made his point.

“Oh? You going to put a show on for me? Bend over and slip them in one by one? Pop, pop, pop.”

“Dread wolf take you,” Mahanon growled.

“Aw, now that’s just mean,” Bull said, and he pulled Mahanon over to the cot. Sitting down on the side of it he pulled Mahanon over his knee and, still holding one hand trapped behind his back, pressing down on the small of his back, pushed the bottom of his shirt up and delivered two hard smacks to Mahanon’s bare arse, hard enough to make Mahanon yelp with each one.

“Fuck you, I’m not a child!” Mahanon hissed.

“No, but you are loud,” Bull said, setting him back on his feet again. “Can’t have Dorian overhearing, he might get jealous and want to join in.”

Mahanon’s teeth clacked shut with an audible clack at that; he definitely did not want Dorian to hear him, or Cassandra for that matter. He wasn’t interested in sharing.

“I probably should have mentioned this earlier,” Bull said seriously. “But if I’ve ever silenced you and you need to say Katoh, make this sign with your hand.” He folded his hand into a fist then extended the thumb and pinky finger. “Do it now, so I know you know it.”

Frowning, Mahanon did so; it was simple but unusual enough that he wasn’t likely to use it by accident.

“Good,” Bull said. “You gotta be quiet now. Unless you actually want to share?” Bull raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Forget it!” Mahanon snarled.

“Then you’d best be quiet,” Bull said and, with a wicked grin, pulled the lithe elf closer, close enough to grab him around the waist and toss him up over his shoulder.

“Damn it Bull, put me down!” Mahanon shouted, pushing against his back. “Put me- nngg.” He broke off suddenly when he felt one of the beads pop inside him. His stomach muscles were already taut from holding himself in this position which caused a constant mild tingling. “Fuck you, Bull,” Mahanon ground out.

“I’ll be the one fucking _you_ actually. Don’t worry, we’ll get to that. And mind your language. You wouldn’t want to give Josephine reason to think you in need of more _lessons_ , now would you?”

Mahanon grimaced at that, practically still able to feel how sore he had been for days after that one. Of course, there had been a lot of fun mixed in with it, but still. “Bull, you need to put me down!” he snapped again.

“I don’t think I do,” Bull said, all the while massaging the cheeks of Mahanon’s arse, causing sparks of sensation to shoot up his body from the beads. “What I do need to do is keep you from making so much noise.” Mahanon felt Bull playing around the outside of his anus, pressing against it and flicking the beads. It sent a constant wave of shocks up inside him and it was all Mahanon could to stop himself from moaning too loud, his fingers pressing in to the flesh of Bull’s back. Then, one, two, three! Four beads were pushed inside and Mahanon clenched instinctively, whimpering and gritting his teeth when he felt the rune activate, constant shocks making back, thighs and backside muscles twitch and clench and, of course, each clench caused it to happen again. Only now did Bull put him down and lay him on his stomach on the cot. “That should make sure you stay still for me,” he said, and Mahanon could hear the grin in his voice. He tried to resist, tried to ignore him and push himself up, but the sensations were too much to ignore. It hurt quite a bit, but it was pleasurable too.

Bull pulled Mahanon’s shirt up over his head, fully undressing him. “Open wide,” he said in a sing song voice.

“Wha-” Mahanon got out before his shirt was shoved inside his mouth and a hand then covering his mouth to prevent him from spitting it out. Almost instantly the panic started to rise - he couldn’t breathe! - but Bull was gently rubbing circles on his back, murmuring all the while, “Shh, easy now Kadan, breath through your nose, it’s all right, I won’t ever choke you I promise, shh.”

Mahanon took a deep breath in through his nose and started to feel the panic ease. Bull was right, he could still breathe easily and, pissed as he was at Bull for his constant flirting with everyone except him, he did trust that he would never do something he was uncomfortable with, even this.

“There we go,” Bull said softly, the hand that had been rubbing his back going to his arse and massaging it once more. Soon Mahanon’s breathing had quickened again but this time it was with undeniable arousal as opposed to fear. Out of the corner of his eye, Mahanon saw Bull reach down beside the bed to where he had left his black cloth bag and pulled out a long length of bright red cloth. Trying to keep his body still and relaxed so that the beads didn’t drive him over the edge, Mahanon watched Bull with half-lidded eyes as the qunari tied a few knots in the cloth then pushed them into his mouth as well before wrapping the unknotted lengths a few times around his head, fastening it behind his head. Mahanon was well and truly muffled now, no one would hear him. Which… was strangely freeing, he thought as he allowed himself to moan into the gag as his hips rocked with pleasure. He could make as much noise as he wanted now without fear of servants or companions or guests at Skyhold or anyone overhearing him.

“Now, I believe you wanted to do something?” Bull asked.

Mahanon nodded and tried to get the word ‘fuck’ out, but all that could be heard was a soft grunt. He tried to push himself up again, to force himself on to Bull if he had to, but his arms gave out and he fell to the bed again as the beads sent an incredibly powerful shock through him that left him tingling. Frustrated, he started to thrust against the cot instead.

“Uh uh none of that now,” Bull said and he took hold of his hips and pulled him backwards off the cot, holding him so that his knees were on the floor of the tent but his chest resting against the cot.

Mahanon felt some of the beads removed and near moaned in relaxation, though his body bucked when he felt something else thrust in there, something hot and wet. Looking over his shoulder he saw Bull nuzzling his arse cat like, nipping his cheeks and his tongue thrusting inside him alongside the final bead that was still in there. “Mmm, tingly,” he said against Mahanon’s arse, before thrusting his tongue back inside again. Fingers were there to, pressing and stretching. All the sensations, the hot wet saliva, the constant tingles and zaps of electricity, the nips on his backside, even the restraint of the gag and the way Bull held his hips, preventing him from moving, all of it took up every thought in Mahanon’s mind. There was no thought, only sensations, sensations he never wanted to end. He was moaning near constantly into the gag now, his fingers flexing and grabbing at the blankets on the cot, his eyes squeezed shut as he focussed entirely on what he was feeling.

It was building within him, uncurling within his abdomen. And then the tongue stopped. Still perilously close to spilling over, Mahanon felt Bull lean over him. “You bit me very hard before,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “You’re gonna pay for that now.”

Mahanon’s eyes flicked open at that. Bull was always fast, but none more so than when he knew what he wanted and how to get it. The beads were removed, dropped to the floor, and Mahanon was picked up as Bull sat on the edge of the cot. Holding Mahanon in his lap facing him, Mahanon held on to Bull’s shoulders as his hips were positioned, and then pushed downwards forcefully. Mahanon threw his head back and let a scream out, one that even the gag couldn’t entirely muzzle. The burning pain was intense, he felt stretched to breaking.

“You okay, Kadan?”

Mahanon forced himself to stop, to think, to take stock of what he was feeling. Was he okay? Was it too much? He was stretched, sore, burning but torn? He didn’t think so. Normally Bull would distract him from the pain of entry with other sensations, but Mahanon had started this, he had wanted to be taken without any preparation before. That would have been a mistake, he realised. Also there was a slickness there, not the heat of blood but rather the familiar feeling of oil inside him. Bull must have been preparing himself even while he was rimming Mahanon. Was he okay? Yes. Oh yes. Mahanon opened his eyes and met Bull’s and nodded sincerely as he had been taught when they paused their play.

Bull gave that half smile of his, the one he gave whenever he was pleasantly surprised by something and Mahanon felt warmth, love unfurl within his chest. Bull was proud of him, of his strength, he was sure of it even if the words weren’t said. “Then ride me like you want to,” Bull said and, permission granted, Mahanon began to rock his hips, to rise up and down, Bull’s hands on his hips to both steady and guide him. His eyes drifted closed again as he focused on the sensations and picked up the pace. The burning pain had eased enough now to become pleasure and Mahanon had been handed just enough control to feel as though he were driving this, as though he were the one reclaiming Bull once more.

Mahanon felt Bull take first one wrist, then the other and hold them behind his back. He could feel them being tied with something but he didn’t mind; he knew Bull enjoyed seeing him tied up just as much as Mahanon enjoyed the surrendering of control that it gave him.

“Wait a moment.”

Mahanon opened his eyes at the soft request, so unlike the forceful commands he was used to hearing from Bull at this time. The qunari was digging through his bag of tricks again only, instead of a toy, this time he pulled out a long length of bright red ribbon of the same hue as the scarf around his mouth. Mahanon rose an eyebrow and looked pointedly at it.

“Your Spymistress went to Val Royaux recently to go shoe shopping. She said she found this in the marketplace and thought it would suit your complexion perfectly. She gave it to me figuring we could use it,” Bull said as he tied one end around his wrists then began to bring it around his body, laying it flat and making sure it didn’t twist. Mahanon, meanwhile, was blushing fit to burst; he was sure his face was the same colour as the scarf about his mouth. Bull saw it and chuckled. “She also said it would likely match your face when you found out who it was from. I’m glad to see she was right.” In lieu of anything else he could do, Mahanon hung his head in resignation. He really shouldn’t expect anything else; it seemed the whole of Skyhold knew the details of his relationship with Bull, of course his spymistress would know. And then, of course, there were the Chargers, masterful gossips every one of them.

“Forget about her for now,” Bull said. “Focus on me, on this, the feeling of the soft ribbon, how it glides over your skin, how it sits just tight enough that you can feel every length of it.”

Mahanon rose his head slightly and watched Bull’s hands work, each placement of the ribbon precise and deliberate, each time ensuring it was laying flat against his skin. When he was done, Mahanon’s hands were tied behind his back, balancing precariously on his knees, but there was no strain or pressure in holding the position. Bull simply sat back, hands resting lightly on Mahanon’s hips, and looked him over, a small pleased smile on his face. “You look so hot like this,” he said. “Tied up in red ribbon, like a winterfest present, all stretched over me like that.” Mahanon felt a bloom of heat rise in his chest at the words, some embarrassment at being related to a present, but love too, that Bull would see him in such a way. And the way he said it wiped the jealousy from Mahanon’s mind; he certainly never said anything like that to anyone else he flirted with. Calmer, more in love than ever, Mahanon began to rock his hips once more.

 

*

 

All of the Venatori forces they hadn’t already dispatched seemed to have retreated into the keep during the night in preparation for the Inquisition’s approach. “Kind of pathetic really,” Dorian was saying. “There are only four of us.”

“It was the same when we captured Caer Bronach in Crestwood,” Cassandra said.

“Our reputation precedes us. That or this evil glowy hand of doom does,” Mahanon said with a grin, wriggling the fingers of his left hand as the mark spluttered obediently, the eerie green glow lighting their faces in the predawn darkness

“Collumn A, collumn B. Come on, let’s go wreck the place,” Bull said, readying his warhammer.

Mahanon nodded and the four of them approached the keep, trying to keep out of sight as much as possible - they didn’t want to draw the attention of any archers - but waiting until predawn seemed to have helped; either they were unseen or the Venatori holding the keep did not believe them to be enough of a threat to actually take a keep and didn’t waste arrows trying to shoot.

Reaching the keep door, Mahanon paused. “Shall we knock?” he asked.

“Oh yeah!” Bull declared before winding up and swinging his warhammer. It took a few strikes but then the wooden door exploded inwards in a spray of splinters. An alarm bell sounded from somewhere.

“Finally we’re worthy of attention,” Dorian said as Mahanon felt the tingle of a barrier being cast over them.

Cassandra charged in first, shield up, with Bull a half second behind and Mahanon taking a wide path to attempt to flank those who were fastest to the keep’s defense. The three of them were used to this and worked well together but Dorian was holding his own as well, his barriers keeping them protected while his fireballs engulfed and spread panic among their enemies. Mahanon moved to take advantage of those who panicked, cutting them down, his strikes fast and precise, though, frustratingly, he could tell that he was slower than he should be, that his progressing illness was taking a toll.

As a team, they climbed upwards through the keep, cutting down the Venatori arranged against them. “There’s a lot less resistance here than I was expecting,” Mahanon said mildly as his daggers slipped precisely between two ribs, puncturing a lung.

“Less complaining, more stabby stabby!” Dorian said, casting another barrier over Mahanon just in time for an arrow to bounce off the magical shield.

Mahanon followed where the arrow had come from to see three archers arrayed on a wall above them. “Bull!” he shouted. Pointing a dagger towards the wall, he said, “Up there!” Seeing the nod, Mahanon ran towards the qunari. Bull smashed the closest opponent to the ground, let go of his warhammer briefly to cup his hands down low. Mahanon stepped into them without breaking his run and was hurled upwards in the air towards the wall.

“Lavellan!” he heard Cassandra shout angrily but Mahanaon, wearing  a huge grin, cheerfully ignored her as he flipped through the air and landed lightly just a few meters from the archers.”

“No man can beat the Chargers,” Mahanon sang loudly as took down the first archer who was too stunned at his aerial acrobatics to even put up a defence. “Cause we’ll hit you where it hurts.” He ducked under a second who tried to use his bow as a staff and sunk his daggers into his unprotected inner thigh as he spun away. Bull’s voice joined in this time, singing even louder than Mahanon, “Unless you know a tavern.” He kept moving towards the third who tried to shoot an arrow at him. “With loose cards and looser skirts!” With Mahanon aware of him this time he was easily able to dodge away at the last minute, the arrow whizzing by him as he ducked to the right. “For every bloody battlefield.” Reaching the archer he went to stab him but missed as the human dodged away. “We’ll gladly raise a cup.” He recovered quickly and a slice across the enemy’s throat ended him. “No matter what tomorrow holds.” Mahanon backed slowly away from the stairs as Venatori swordsmen started swarming up them. It was a narrow walkway though, and there was only room for two. Mahanon caught the eye of the first. “Our horns be pointing up!” he near shouted as he plunged his daggers in, driving them upwards into the vital organs of his abdomen.

Mahanon broke away when one of the soldiers running up the stairs to meet him stopped suddenly with an arrow through the throat. In fact a number of the swarming enemies were falling to arrows. Turning Mahanon grinned when he spotted a familiar face letting loose another arrow to protect Cassandra’s flank. “Harding! Great timing!” he called out.

Harding’s eyes flicked to Mahanon, then widened. “Inquisitor! Behind you!” she shouted as she pulled another arrow. Mahanon started to turn but stopped suddenly when a sharp burst of pain bloomed in his left hip. He screamed as he crumpled to the ground, his leg giving way, and saw a swordsman grinning at him. That grin turned to surprise and a spray of blood as Harding’s arrow finally took him in the face, the force throwing him back over the edge of the keep wall and yanking lose the sword that had embedded itself in Mahanon’s hip, the movement of it causing him to scream again. His vision was swimming, a hand clutching at the wound as he instinctively curled around it. There were still enemies around and he tried to move, to scramble away but whenever he tried to move his left leg his vision went dark.

A thud landed beside him and he managed to get a dagger up till he heard Harding’s voice. “Inquisitor, stay still, I’ll cover you. The other’s are getting to you as fast as they can.”

Mahanon gave a short nod and grit his teeth, struggling to get his pain under control. He must have blacked out for a minute or two because the next thing he was aware of was the soothing feeling of magic numbing the area. Looking up he saw Dorian kneeling by him, his hands lit with a blue light, face determined. Bull and Cassandra were standing not far away and the four of them were ringed by Harding’s scouts, still firing on the charging enemy. The Inquisitor being struck down seemed to give the Venatori a moral boost as they attacked with a new vigour.

“Take the keep,” Mahanon got out through gritted teeth.

“We’re not-” Bull started, but Mahanon cut him off.

“Take the keep!” he snapped. “That’s an order. Dorian can stay here and a few of Harding’s scouts for cover and the rest of you take the Keep. It’s- augh!”

“Hold still, Lavellan,” Dorian scolded. “It’s hard enough healing you without you moving around and aggravating everything.”

“Let’s go,” Cassandra said.

“We’ll protect him Seeker, don’t worry,” Harding said, though she was looking at Bull as she said it. Bull, for his part, was watching Mahanon as though torn. Mahanon met Bull’s eye and, with a pained half smile, he gave a nod, trying to reassure him that he would be fine. Finally the qunari seemed to accept it, and he followed after Cassandra.

Mahanon closed his eyes and gritted his teeth then, sure that they would get the job done especially now they had Harding’s scouts as back up. He heard Dorian muttering to himself, half in Tevinter and half in common and what he could understand was mostly calling Mahanon and Bull all kinds of stupid for the aerial acrobatics and ridiculous risks. Mahanon smiled despite himself; it _had_ been fairly epic. He noticed too the sweat beading Dorian forehead.

“Dorian. You all right?” he asked, his voice still tight with pain.

Dorian glanced up to Mahanaon and the elf felt pain flare even more strongly as Dorian was distracted from what he was doing, at least until he turned his attention back to it. “Mite exhausted, is all. I’ll be fine.”

Mahanon shook his head. “Just… just stop the bleeding if you can. I don’t want you to burn yourself out before the others get back. They might need you.”

“You do know I’m not a healer. Sparks, explosions, theoretically impossible magic, that’s my forte. You should have brought Solas if you wanted a healer with you.”

Mahanon grunted at that thought. “And be berated about how little I care about the Fade and long lost elven history? No thanks. Besides we managed fine without a healer before, having any kind of mage now is- ng.”

“Sorry,” Dorian said when Mahanon broke off with a grunt of pain.

Mahanon reached out and laid a hand on Dorian’s. “Stop,”  he said. “Bull or Cassandra or even any of Harding’s scouts may need you more than I do and you won’t be able to help them if you’ve passed out from exhaustion.”

“Ha! You didn’t see the way that lump of meat in a qunari’s skin reacted when he heard you scream. Those crazed, blood-mad Tal-Vashoth you hear about? They would have looked like cute and cuddly teddy bears compared to him.”

“All the more reason to stop. If he’s battle crazed again he won’t even notice if he’s injured until he falls over.”

“Here,” Harding said, kneeling down in front of Mahanon and handing him a healing potion. “It won’t do much for a wound that deep but it should help with the pain and let Dorian have a break.” Mahanon took the potion, swallowed it in one gulp, then handed the empty flask back. Harding stared at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone knock them back that fast. The bitterness alone…”

Mahanon smirked as the potion took the edge off the pain. “What can I say? I’ve gotten used to it since becoming Inquisitor. Enemies tend to target me more than my friends. Imagine the adulation if they managed to kill the immortal Inquisitor! Ow!” Mahanon yelped. Looking at Dorian he saw the man had stopped healing him and was using a wad of cloth to press against the wound. A horn sounded and, as Mahanon watched, an Inquisition flag rose over the battlements. He smiled, relieved. “Thank the creators,” he murmured.

Dorian looked up to Harding and said, “He’s stable enough now to be moved, once camp is set up.”

“Right,” Harding said giving a nod and turning to her scouts, giving the order to clear away the bodies and set up tents for the soldiers, another two she sent to search out a room in the keep where the Inquisitor could be kept comfortably. Mahanon didn’t bother protesting that he would be just as comfortable in a tent, he would only be ignored anyway; he knew Harding, she may be small but she could be fierce when she needed to be and when she was protecting her own she could be positively frightening. She had told him previously that she did consider him her own, along with all the Chargers and her scouts so going against her wishes was out of the question, Inquisitor or no.

“Lavellan, look at me,” Dorian said. Mahanon turned his head to look at the mage, to be met with two fingers touching his forehead. “Sleep,” Dorian said and, before Mahanon could pull back he felt magic wash over him, clouding his mind, making him sleepy.

“Fuck you Dorian,” he got out before sleep claimed him entirely.

 

*

 

Bull and Cassandra returned to where they had left the Inquisitor in time to see him being carried on a makeshift stretcher into one of the rooms in the keep, seemingly unconscious. Bull immediately fell in step beside it, looking down at the elf. The sun was rising but even with that golden light he looked pale, more sickly than usual which was significant since his cough had made him more pale than he was when they first met. His face tattoos stood out starkly.

“How is he?” Cassandra asked Dorian, walking on the other side of the stretcher.

“He’s lost a lot of blood but so long as infection doesn’t set in, I believe he’ll live,” Dorian said. “I’m more worried about what kind of movement he will have with it. He needs a healer, a proper one. The sword lodged right into the hip bone, breaking it and snapping off a shard of it. It’s beyond my skill to heal.”

Mahanon chose that moment to give a small snore. Bull stared at him. “He’s asleep. Not unconscious but asleep.”

“Yes, I suspect he’ll be rather mad at me about that when he wakes. It was easier to move him when he wasn’t conscious to feel it,” Dorian said.

“I’ve sent a bird to Skyhold requesting some healers and surgeons be sent ahead of some forces to hold the keep,” Harding said.

“Thank you,” Cassandra said as they got Mahanon into the room. It was fairly plain but was obviously an officer’s quarters; the bed was clean and there was a fireplace (it got cold in the desert at night so would be needed).

“I’m… going to make myself scarce. In case he manages to stab me with those knives of his when he wakes,” Dorian said. “Call me if he needs me or is in a lot of pain when he wakes.”

Bull nodded and pulled a chair over to the bed they laid Mahanon on, wanting to be there when he woke.

 

*

 

Bull stayed by Mahanon’s side while he slept and insisted on being the one to change the dressing on his hip. He wanted to feel at least slightly useful, he said. It was during one such dressing change that the elf began to stir. As gently as he could Bull lowered Mahanon back down and fastened the bandage in place. Blue eyes opened and locked immediately onto Bull.

“Hey,” he said quietly in greeting.

“Hey, boss,” Bull replied. He wanted to say more, he wanted to berate and scold him for not being careful, the same way Cassandra had berated and scolded him in the first place for throwing him up there. It would be pointless though; the more Mahanon was coddled, the more risks he would take just to prove he could.

“Inquisitor,” Harding said as she knocked on the open door then entered. “Glad to see you’re awake. Dorian was beginning to worry that he had used too much magic on you.”

Mahanon scowled at the memory and started to get up before he fell back on the bed with a short cry of pain. “Where is he? I have a few words to say to him,” he growled.

“Staying far away from you, currently,” Harding said with a smile. “Seems he’s worried about what you’ll be able to do even incapacitated.”

“Good,” Mahanon muttered.

“Boss, you really wanted to go through moving you off the walls and in here while you were awake? Considering that small movement hurt?” Bull pointed out.

Mahanon’s lips pursed. “No, but that’s not the point, he should have…” he trailed off with a sigh, realising that such an argument was pointless. He was unharmed from the magic and, as Bull had pointed out, it did save him from experiencing what was sure to be an agonizing move. Then another thought occurred to him. “Why are you here, Harding? I was told you were in the Arbor Wilds, that you were having trouble there. That’s why we sent the Chargers to help you.”

“So I heard,” Harding said, dragging a seat over to be next to the bed and sitting down. Unlike Bull, who was practically hunched to sit in the human-sized chair, Harding could have passed for a child the way her feet dangled above the floor. She even kicked them back and forth absently. Her face was serious though. “I suspect our correspondence has been tampered with, our true requests not being sent and false ones sent in its place. Corypheus’s agents’ doing no doubt. We requested reinforcements, yes, but not because my scouts were going missing. Because we witnessed Corypheus’s forces coming under attack. Not from Inquisition forces. From elves.”

Mahanon frowned. “I wasn’t aware there were any dalish in the wilds.”

“There’s not. That’s what’s strange. These elves seem to be able to melt in and out of the forest as though they were dalish who had lived there their entire lives. But they’re not dalish. At least not like any I’ve ever seen. We found the body of one who had been killed in the fighting. He was pale, grey almost, but not decomposing, this was his natural colour. He was bald and his eyes were strange, cat like. Have you heard of any elves like that?”

Mahanon frowned, thinking. Eventually though, he shook his head. “I’m no Keeper to have known the histories of our people but from what little I do know, I’ve never heard of a people like that. I wonder if that’s what Corypheus is looking for there, to ally with these people.”

“If that’s the case, then they don’t want to ally with him,” Harding said.

“Regardless, we need to get back, to muster our forces and go there. Whatever it is he wants there we can’t allow him to have it,” Mahanon said and, gritting his teeth, he started to force himself up until Bull took hold of his shoulders, holding him in place briefly before pushing him back down, gently but firmly.

“You’re not going anywhere just yet, boss,” he said.

“But-”

“No buts. You can’t walk. We’ve sent to Skyhold for a proper healer but until they arrive, you’re not moving.”

“That could take days! Meanwhile, Corypheus is intercepting our correspondence, learning of our plans and sending false reports, and all the while getting closer to whatever it is out there he’s hunting for!” Mahanon protested.

“And just how do you think you’ll be able to ride all the way back to Skyhold?” Bull said.

“I’ll manage,” Mahanon replied through gritted teeth.

“Inquisitor-” Harding started, but Bull spoke over her.

“All right then. You get up on your own and walk over to where Harding’s at, I’ll make sure we leave for Skyhold first thing in the morning.”

“I don’t think-”

“Fine,” Mahanon said, both of them completely ignoring Harding’s protests, who simply sighed and sat back in her chair.

Bull watched as Mahanon pushed himself into a sitting position, glad that at least he was taking it slow. He didn’t make a noise as he moved his legs over the side of the bed, though he had to physically lift his left leg to move it. There, sitting on the edge of the bed his knuckles were white as his fists balled. His face was as pale as the sheets he was sitting on, his tattoos appearing black and freshly made instead of their usual worn, light grey, and a thin film of sweat covering him. He was breathing harshly, gasping almost. His eyes, which were closed, snapped open then, locking on to Bull with that determined look that Bull had started associating with the moment when Mahanon was about to push past his limits. Then he took a breath and forced himself to stand upright. The corner of Bull’s mouth twitched, proud despite himself, as Mahanon stood there, swaying and looking like he was about to faint at any moment, but remaining standing. Mahanon looked over to Bull, triumphant, but Bull could see how all of Mahanon’s weight was on his good leg. He tilted his head towards Harding while he readied himself; he knew Mahanon would not be able to walk, this wasn’t to prove that he could to Bull, but to prove that he couldn’t to Mahanon himself.

Gritting his teeth, seeming to gather himself, Mahanon moved his left leg forward but, as he transferred his weight on to it, as expected, it couldn’t take his weight. With an anguished cry, the leg gave out under him and both Bull and Harding were there, each catching an arm and preventing him from falling.

With a nod of thanks to Harding, Bull slipped his other arm beneath Mahanon’s knees and his hand resting just above his injured hip to fully cradle it as he lifted and carried him back to the bed. Laying him down, he said, “There, you see? You try and move now you’ll just be a burden on everyone who has to help you. Wait until the healer gets here, it’ll only be a few more days.”

“I know it’s probably not much consolation,” Harding said, “but it’s likely Corypheus has been intercepting our messages for weeks now. A couple more days won’t hurt.”

“Just leave me alone,” Mahanon said quietly, staring at the far wall and not looking at either of them.

Harding gave a pained look to Bull before she turned and left the room. Bull took the opportunity to set up an incense burner to start burning by Mahanon’s bed and put a healing potion within reach. “I’ll be just outside if you need me,” he said. He was met with silence in return, Mahanon determinedly ignoring him.

Leaving the room and stepping into the harsh sunlight outside, Harding stood next to him and asked, “He going to be okay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” Bull said. “He’ll have a sulk, have a sleep, then be complaining that he’s bored, you’ll see.”

 

*

 

Sure enough, after a nap, Mahanon woke in a much more pleasant mood. Cassandra was keeping watch at the time, reading (or rather rereading) Varric’s latest book, though she snapped it shut when she saw Mahanon was awake.

Mahanon smiled. “You’re not still trying to hide that are you? I brought you that book if you remember.”

“No, it’s just…” Cassandra sighed. “Habit I suppose. How are you feeling?”

“Sore. Frustrated. Any idea how long it will take a healer to get here?”

“A few days at least, depending on the horse they take and the weather.”

Mahanon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “So what, everyone is just lounging around here in the meantime?”

“Other than those shoring up the damage to the castle and burning the dead, yes. Why do you ask?”

“You should be going out looking for those records Dorian wants.”

“We were wanting to wait until you were healed. In case we run into any rifts. And… well, we thought you might want Bull close while you’re stuck in bed.”

“For entertainment?” Mahanon asked, the corner of his mouth twitching. His comment was rewarded with a blush and stuttering until, laughing, he continued, “Of course I would like him close, but as soon as I can walk we’re leaving. We’ll stop briefly back at Skyhold, before going on to the Arbor Wilds. Corypheus has been intercepting our correspondence in and out of the area, Harding and her scouts aren’t there when they’re supposed to be while the Chargers are there with no backup. We need to get there and beat Corypheus to whatever it is he’s looking for as soon as possible and I’m not letting anyone else go in my stead this time. What?” Mahanon broke off to ask, seeing a strange smile come over Cassandra’s face.

“It’s nice to see you passionate about it. You fool around so much that sometimes people wonder, sometimes even I wonder.”

Mahanon laughed self consciously. “Of course I’m passionate about that. But if there’s one thing being with Bull has taught me is that you can’t be serious all the time or you’ll explode. And not in the good way. Too many people rely on us, on me to succeed. I won’t let them down just cause I like having fun.”

Cassandra just nodded and, standing, rested a hand on Mahanon’s shoulder. “I’ll go let the others know. We can leave tonight.”

“Ah, tomorrow, please,” Mahanon said. “I need to apologise to Bull for being an arse earlier.”

Cassandra just nodded and took her leave.

 

*

 

Mahanon was bored for the most part. His companions and a few scouts had left to try to find the records Dorian was looking for and while Harding tried to keep him company, she had her own duties to attend to. For the most part Mahanon slept, blood loss and the healing potions he was provided with making him drowsy and boredom finishing the job. Harding always came by in the evening with some food and would help prop him up with pillows so he could eat. They passed the time exchanging stories of their various adventures, Mahanon of when he was a simple hunter for Clan Lavellan and Harding of the scouting she did before joining the Inquisition. He had one minor coughing fit while the others were away, but he managed to convince Harding that it was just a cold he had been fighting off, and that if she could set up his incense burner for him, it would pass.

Three days after they left, his companions returned, somewhat successful. The ruins Dorian had directed them to were partially in tact and there were records inside them. Unfortunately, as Dorian translated them in Mahanon’s room (to keep him awake, he said, though it just as often put him to sleep), it became increasingly clear that the records were just research into dragons in the area. Why this ancient Tevinter family was interested in dragons, neither of them could guess at, but what documents there were made no reference of any kind of illness, curse, or cure.

“I’m sorry, Lavellan,” Dorian said quietly when they reached the end of it.

Mahanon managed to summon a half smile, though it didn’t meet his eyes as he said, “It’s all right. We knew it was a stretch anyway. Thank you for trying.”

“I’m not ready to give up yet. There are still a few lines of inquiry I would like to try when we get back to Skyhold.”

“We’ll only have a day or two at Skyhold before we leave for the Arbor Wilds if I have my way about it. And… I’ll need you with me then. In case I have another bad attack like I did in the Hinterlands. Honestly right now, if I can last long enough to deal with Corypheus, I’ll be content with that. Not happy, perhaps, but content.”

“Well, you may be content with it, but I most assuredly am not!” Dorian declared.

Mahanon opened his mouth to respond, but snapped it closed again when he heard Bull’s voice from outside the room, pitched to carry, say, “The Inquisitor’s in this room.” He knocked twice then opened the door.

Dorian began stacking the papers as though there were nothing to hide while simultaneously ensuring that none of the papers he brought with him were visible as the door opened. Bull ducked to enter and led two others in, a young human boy and the elven woman who had treated Mahanon’s broken wrist. He grinned when he saw her, mentally shoving away the despair and disappointment he felt with Dorian’s discovery, or lack thereof.

“We meet again, my dear. I would give you my best courtly bow, but I have a feeling that would only make you cross,” Mahanon said.

“I would be significantly less cross if you would take care not to continuously injure yourself, milord,” she said mildly.

“Hey, this time it wasn’t my own fault, it was a Venatori sword!” Mahanon protested.

“Yes. Though from what I hear it was a certain qunari tossing you onto the battlements that put you in the way of said sword.”

“Well… I guess… but it was fun! And it wasn’t directly caused by that, it - ouch!” Mahanon cut off as the woman poked at his bandaged hip.

“Hurt did it?” she said mildly. Mahanon merely scowled at her and didn’t answer. “Has it been bleeding much?” she asked seriously.

Mahanon shook his head. “Only when I move and it tears open. Dorian did a good job stopping it from bleeding.”

“He did a crude job, though I suppose it served its purpose. See here, Malcolm,” she said to the human boy, her apprentice Mahanon supposed. “See how the edges of the skin have been jammed together? That’s what you don’t want to do if you have the time to do it properly.” The boy stepped forward nervously, glancing between Mahanon and the healer. “Oh come now, he doesn’t bite,” the healer said impatiently.

Malcolm glanced once more at his teacher before hesitantly moving forward. Mahanon waited until he was close then quickly lifted his head up and snapped his teeth towards him. The way the human stumbled backwards, near tripping over his feet in his haste, was priceless!

“Was that really necessary?” the elf snapped.

“Totally,” Mahanon said laughing. Even Bull had given a snort of laughter at it and was now trying to cover his grin behind ‘tidying’ the room. Mahanon had never known the qunari to bother tidying anything.

“Come Malcolm, we have other patients who actually want our help,” the healer said, turning on her heal.

“What? No, wait! I’m sorry!” he called out when it seemed she was serious. “I’ve just been so bored laying here with nothing to do, looking at the same four walls all the time.” He turned on his best charm, using what Bull liked to call his ‘elfy eyes’. “I need you, I need this healing so I can get going to stop Corypheus. Please?”

The healer sighed irritably and Mahanon had a feeling that were it not for the fact that he was the Inquisitor and that he really did have important business to see to, she would have stood her ground and walked away. Oh she would no doubt come back later, but since Mahanon really did intend to leave as soon as he could, she relented. This time.

“Very well. Just make sure I’m not stuck healing you again any time soon,” she said.

“Sure, I’ll pass that on to Corypheus when I see him next.”

She snorted in a rather undignified manner at that and Mahanon grinned; mission success.

She and Malcolm spent some time mending his hip; it alternated between soothing numbness and sharp, shooting pain depending on what they were doing. Thankfully, during this time his cough remained at bay. Once he tried to ask them exactly what they were doing, but he was shushed into silence so simply lay back and waited, trying not to move whenever the sensations he was feeling changed.

They were at it for about an hour before the two of them stepped back. “The bone has been lightly knitted back together so you can walk again. However, like your arm, nothing strenuous for the next couple of weeks.”

“You do know that I’ll be going to join our forces in the Arbor Wilds now,” Mahanon said as he slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. His hip ached but no where near what it had last time he tried. “We’re not going to ask him to tea.”

“Sometimes I wish you would try that instead of just rushing in swords blazing. But yes, I am well aware of that. You just need to take it easy in the mean time, give it as long as possible for the bone to strengthen once more or you risk snapping it in the same place again. I won’t be going to the Arbor Wilds, Malcolm and I are to be stationed here, so you will be stuck with some other healer who won’t put up with your shit as pleasantly as I do.”

Both Mahanon and Bull scoffed at that but, as Mahanon pushed himself to standing, this time without feeling as though he were going to faint. He smiled to the healer and said, “Thank you. Truly.”

The woman softened a little at his thanks and nodded. “Take care Inquisitor. My magic does not wish to see you again. Though I wouldn’t say no to an invite to the party you’ll be throwing once you defeat Corypheus.”

Mahanon laughed. “Done,” he said and the two bowed and took their leave. Mahanon glanced to Bull and said, “Let’s go.”

 


	30. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon travels to the Arbor Wilds to try to beat Corypheus to the eluvian, but finding the eluvian and smashing it is about the only thing that goes right.

There was a spray of blood, a grunt, and Bull went down.

Mahanon had been standing behind him and swiped an arm over his face to wipe away the hot blood, his eyes taking in what had happened even before his mind processed it. “Bull!” he shouted. He slashed his dagger against the unprotected throat of the strange looking elf he was fighting and had spun to kneel down beside the qunari without even pausing to ensure his enemy was dead.

“There’s no time, Lavellan!” Cassandra shouted over the general roar and clamour of battle, her back to them, her shield and sword protecting them.

“I know!” Mahanon snapped angrily as he pressed his hands against the wound in Bull’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding. “Where the fuck is Dorian?”

“I’m here,” the mage said as he hurried up behind Mahanon, his hands already beginning to glow with healing magic. “I’m getting quite good at this travelling with you,” he said as he rested one hand on Bull’s forehead, and the other on his chest. Almost immediately the qunari seemed to slip unconscious or asleep.

“The arrow went through and out his side, I don’t think there’s anything left in there,” Mahanon said.

“Yes, I see that,” Dorian said.

Bull had seen the arrow, had moved in front of Mahanon to shield him with his own body. He had been shielding Mahanon for the entire fight, protecting him since he was getting slow, weakened by his cough and sore hip, covering him, and the arrow that was meant for Mahanon had felled Bull instead. It entered Bull’s chest at an angle and came out his side, narrowly missing Mahanon’s face and spraying him with his lover’s blood. Now, though Bull was breathing in quick, shallow gasps, the blood at his wound was bubbling.

“Lavellan!” Cassandra called.

“I can’t leave him!” Mahanon growled back.

“You must, if you don’t Corypheus will-”

“Fuck what Corypheus will do, I don’t care!”

“Go Lavellan,” Krem said as he and the Chargers jogged up to them, forming a protective ring around them. “We’ll protect the chief and Dorian will keep healing him.”

“I… I can’t,” Mahanon said softer, turning to look at Bull’s face, feeling tears rise up. What if he never saw him again? What if he died and Mahanon wasn’t there? He was always so brave and joked about facing danger but Mahanon was sure he was often just as scared of this whole mess as he was; Bull was just better at hiding it.

“If the Chief were awake, what would he tell you to do?” Krem asked.

Clever clever Krem. “My job,” Mahanon said, resigned. A hand cupping Bull’s unresponsive face, Mahanon leaned forward, resting his forehead to Bull’s, eyes closed even as he felt tears leak out from beneath his eyelids. “Don’t you dare die on me,” he whispered. Opening his eyes he straightened and stood. Looking to Krem he said, “Send a runner to the temple to find me if anything happens.”

“Of course,” Krem said, though Mahanon knew it was a lie; he wouldn’t be told anything until this situation with the mirror was resolved. Well, so be it. If that’s the way it would be then best resolve it as fast as possible. Which meant Mahanon would find this fucking mirror and smash it.

“Come on,” Mahanon said, as he drew his daggers once more and jogged towards the temple, just him, Cassandra, and a couple soldiers who had managed to keep up.

 

*

 

Word had spread that the Inquisitor’s party was halved and first Solas and then Blackwall and Morrigan caught up to them. Sera and Vivienne were on their way too but when Mahanon saw them, he sent them to where he had left Bull. He trusted Sera and trusted her skill with a bow; she would be able to help the Chargers defend that position. If, _when_ Bull woke, Mahanon knew he would respond well to Vivienne’s commanding demeanour; if she told him to lay still and rest, he would lay still and rest even if he didn’t like it. Was that abusing Bull’s upbringing under the Qun? Perhaps, but when it came to keeping his partner alive Mahanon didn’t care what boundaries he crossed.

They fought their way to the temple, Mahanon working out his anger on the enemy in a way that Bull would have been proud of, an anxious fury driving him. The entrance to the temple grounds was through a long tunnel but ahead they could hear fighting. Crouching down, the party approached the railing of a balcony and looked over. Down below Mahanon saw Corypheus and Calpernia approaching a group of elves who currently held a bridge that lead to the temple proper. The elf said something and Mahanon frowned, not understanding.

“That wretch mocks you, Master,” Calpernia said, and that only made Mahanon more uncomfortable; how could Calpernia understand what was said but Mahanon could not? Or did she not either and was only goading Corypheus?

Corypheus was holding a dead elf that he tossed towards the group, causing them to back away a little. “These are but remnants,” Corypheus said, and Mahanon suppressed a shudder hearing that voice once more. “They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

Mahanon frowned. “The Well of Sorrows?” he repeated, looking to Morrigan but the witch merely shrugged and shook her head, as much in the dark as Mahanon. Or at least not willing to speak of what she knew.

Mahanon turned his attention back to the scene below him in time to see two pillars either side of the bridge light up with a bright blue light. It was enough to give Corypheus pause, but it didn’t seem to bother him as he simply kept walking. “Be honoured,” he was saying. “Witness death at the hands of a new god.”

The pillars shot lightning out, latching on to Corypheus and the smell of electricity permeated through the air. It should have been enough to kill him, or paralyse him at the very least, but it didn't even slow Corypheus down as he continued striding forwards. “What in the Fade are you?” Mahanon murmured to himself.

The elves seemed as surprised at how little their trap was affecting Corypheus as Mahanon was and didn’t move, even when Corypheus reached out and took hold of the one closest to him by the head, lifting him. It was then that, finally, the smell of electricity began to be replaced with a smell of cooking, of burning flesh as the lighting began to take effect, burning what flesh Corypheus had, melting, then evaporating it. A second later an explosion ripped out and Mahanon ducked down behind the railing for cover as chunks of stone, flesh, and red lyrium flew in all directions. The noise was such that it hurt the ears and even after it ended Mahanon’s ears were ringing. Slowly, he lifted his head again and took in what had happened. Corypheus was gone. The elves were dead. Calpernia and a few Venatori were calmly striding into the temple. Mahanon stood and frowned.

“Why aren’t they concerned that their god is dead?” he said. No one answered; no one knew. Of course, he should be happy, his work was done, Corypheus was gone. He had seen him explode into little gooey pieces. But the fact that the event hadn’t seemed to phase Calpernia, Corypheus’s most stalwart companion, remained an enigma.

Cautiously, Mahanon and his companions approached the area, looking around. Inquisition forces, Grey Wardens, Venatori, elves, all lay strewn about in death. A major battle had taken place here before Mahanon had arrived. The pillars had been destroyed in the explosion, so Mahanon began walking past them without fear of the trap reactivating but paused as he heard something, a groaning, squelching noise. He turned and froze, going pale. A body seemed to becoming back to life, a Grey Warden body. He had seen plenty of horrific things since becoming Inquisitor, the attack at Haven and Adan being burned alive and then what the demons showed him in the Fade were most prominent in his mind. But this was the waking world, horrors such as the way this body seemed to jerk so unnaturally were not supposed to be a part of the real world. The body rose to it’s knees and then threw its head back, spewing out black blood, and Mahanon quickly took several steps back.

“It cannot be!” Morrigan said and Mahanon spared her a glance though she was staring riveted at the living corpse before them.

An arm burst from the body, a clawed familiar arm that had once gripped Mahanon around his neck and flung him as though he weighed nothing. Well did he remember the feeling of that as he shouted, “Across the bridge! Now!” before turning to follow his own orders. Behind him he could hear Corypheus continuing to grow out of the Grey Warden’s body. An all too familiar screech announced the arrival of Corypheus’s dragon and caused another burst of speed from Mahanon as they raced across the bridge. Inside the temple, they turned and pushed on the double doors, only just getting them closed in time to protect themselves from the dragon’s red lyrium flames. As the doors connected together a blue light pulsed out from the centre. Though Mahanon was no mage, even he could feel the magic emanating from it, a kind of static charge that grew more intense the closer they got. It wouldn’t hold Corypheus long - if he could come back from being blasted to bits he could get through a magically sealed door - but it would give them a head start at least.

Slowly, Mahanon turned about, looking at the temple in wonder. Even with other things pressing on his mind, he couldn’t help but marvel at the ruins around him. “If only Faerel were here to see this,” he murmured to himself.

“Tis beautiful,” Morrigan said, the awe in her voice echoing Mahanon’s own.

“It is ancient,” Solas said. Obvious as always. Sometimes Mahanon wondered who excelled at speaking the obvious more: Solas or Dorian.

Of course Corypheus’s forces had already done significant damage to the place, blowing a huge hole in the floor of the temple proper.

“We should respect the ways here, observe the rituals, do things properly,” Solas said.

“That’ll take a long time,” Cassandra said.

“We don’t have time,” Mahanon said.

“But-” Solas started but broke off when Mahanon levelled him with a flat stare. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blackwall’s disapproving frown - of course a Grey Warden would be a stickler for ritual - but Mahanon ignored him in favour of focusing on Solas for now. He was shorter than the bald elf, and his holier-than-thou attitude often made Mahanon feel small, but in this he would not budge.

“We’re taking the direct route,” he said firmly, and he jumped into the hole Corypheus had already made. He heard Solas sigh even as he followed him. “Normally I would agree with you on this,” he said in a softer tone as they walked along the passageways. “Given the opportunity I would like to come back here once this is sorted, see about putting things to rights. I know my Keeper would love to find out all she can about this place. But right now Calpernia already has a head start on us, Corypheus is no doubt close behind, we don’t have reinforcements coming, and Bull is laying out there dying surrounded by enemy forces. I want to get in, smash the fucking mirror, and get out again, done and dusted.”

Solas didn’t respond but Mahanon didn’t mind, he spoke his thoughts more for Blackwall’s sake than for Solas’s; he respected the Warden’s opinion of him, he couldn’t care less what Solas thought of him.

 

*

 

“Abelas!” Mahanon shouted spotting the elf and running after him, even as he ran to try to beat the crow that was Morrigan. Abelas was an ancient elf. A _true_ ancient elf, not merely an old one, one from before Tevinter had nearly wiped them out (or didn’t according to this one). Mahanon had wanted to convince him to put down his weapons, to teach what elves remained, but he had refused and now he was set against them. Corypheus was dealt with, locked outside. Calpernia was dealt with, sent back to Tevinter. Now they just had to overcome this obstacle and Mahanon could smash the mirror and get back to Bull.

Stairs formed under Abelas’s feet as he climbed them, up to a ledge that Mahanon hadn’t really paid any attention to before. Mahanon’s own feet pounded the new stairs as he raced to try to catch up. He was forced to skid to a stop when Morrigan transformed back to her human form between Abelas and a basin of water, what had to be the Well of Sorrows.

“You heard his parting words, Inquisitor,” Morrigan said, not taking her eyes from Abelas. “The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows.”

“So the sanctum is despoiled at last,” Abelas said, his voice sad.

“You would have destroyed the Well yourself if given the chance,” Morrigan pointed out.

“To keep it from your grasping fingers! Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving,” Abelas snapped.

“Fool! You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows!”

“Enough!” Mahanon shouted. Their forces were still fighting outside, Corypheus was likely right behind them, Bull was lying dying on a battlefield and they were standing here arguing?

Morrigan, as always, ignored him. “You cannot honestly-”

“Do not test me, Morrigan,” Mahanon growled. “I said enough.” That at least seemed to give the witch pause, Abelas’s odd orange eyes flicking between the two of them.

In a calmer voice, Morrigan continued, “The well clearly offers power, Inquisitor. If that power can be used against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?”

Abelas shook his head. “Do you even know what you ask?” he said as he turned to stare into the waters. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years they would pass their knowledge on through this. All that we were, all that we knew, it would be lost forever.”

Mahanon felt a pang hearing that; the Inquisition seemed skilled at destroying just as much as it saved. But still, “Look around you,” he said gently. “Everything your people were, it’s already gone.”

“It is,” Abelas agreed sadly.

Morrigan chose that moment to butt in. “Why remain? Why perform a duty without purpose?”

Mahanon felt a flare of irritation towards the woman as Abalas shook his head, becoming stern once more; he thought he was wearing the elf down, letting him see their point of view and then she had to open her big mouth.

“Our duty is all that remains,” Abelas said. “Those who drank from the vira bellasan paid a great price, bound to the service of Mythal for eternity.”

“Actually bound?” Mahanon asked. “You claim Mythal was truly a god?” Wouldn’t Faerel have loved to hear that; he had always been fascinated by the stories of the ancient elven gods. To learn that they are, or at least were, real would have been the best discovery of his lifetime.

Abelas seemed disinterested in telling stories, however, saying only “To you it shall make no difference.” The magic was summoned so quickly that Mahanon didn’t even have time to react before both he and Morrigan were blasted backwards. Mahanon landed hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him, jarring his sore hip, and triggering a coughing attack. Rolling onto his side he coughed hard, trying to end it as quickly as possible even as he felt the burn in his lungs and tasted copper on his lips. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Abelas doing something to the well, causing it to swirl and rise. Morrigan was up already and running towards Abelas who, focussed on what he was doing, didn’t see her.

Cassandra was next to him then, helping him to stand and also shielding him from view of the others. Wiping a hand over his mouth, hiding any evidence of blood, Mahanon gave her a nod of thanks, but looked past her hearing water suddenly fall and Abelas gasp something about Mythal. Morrigan… Morrigan had stabbed him! Mahanon felt a flare of anger at her but shoved it down. He wanted nothing more than to punch that smug look from her face but, at the moment at least, they didn’t have time and he could not allow her to get any inkling about his own weakness.

“Stubborn fool,” Morrigan said as Abelas fell to the ground.

“And what would you have done, backed into a corner?” Blackwall demanded.

“And what if the Well was destroyed? Or this entire temple? Are you so eager to die for sympathy’s sake?” Morrigan said.

Gritting his teeth, feeling his head give a vicious throb at always being stuck between two fighting factions, Mahanon said wearily, “Stop, both of you. What’s done is done.”

“That it is,” Morrigan said, and unless Mahanon was mistaken she even sounded somewhat regretful about her actions. She walked to the edge of the Well and Mahanon, after patting Cassandra on the arm in thanks, moved to join her. “You’ll note the intact eluvian? I was correct on that count at least.”

“Is it still a threat?” Mahanon asked. “Can Corypheus use it to travel the Fade?”

“You recall when I took you through my eluvian I said each required a key?”

 

_Mahanon and Morrigan walked through a strange world. Or not world, apparently, but a world between worlds. If that was even possible. At first Mahanon had been annoyed that Morrigan had brought such a portal into Skyhold itself, a way in that they hadn’t been defending against._

_“I have nearly been assassinated once before, thank you very much, I don’t need you bringing something like this here and telling no one! Anyone could have come into Skyhold through this.”_

_“Not anyone,” Morrigan had replied calmly. “You’ll note that even those eluvians that remain intact are inactive. Each mirror requires a key to unlock it.”_

_“What kind of key?” Mahanon asked slowly, curious despite himself._

_“It could be anything, something magical or mundane. I alone have the key to the eluvian within Skyhold; no one could come or go that way without my knowledge.”_

_Mahanon nodded and made a mental note to write to his Keeper that very evening, requesting that she send any hunters who were still healthy enough to travel to search for eluvians in the area, and if there are none healthy enough, to accept help from some trusted Inquisition scouts. Finding such a portal and being able to use it would make passing information and any potential remedies back and forth much faster and safer. So long as they could find the key to any they found still intact._

 

“The well is the key,” Morrigan said when Mahanon nodded. “Take its power and Mythal’s last eluvian will be no more use to Corypheus than glass.”

“I’d rather just smash it,” Mahanon said idly.

Morrigan seemed not to hear him, so avidly was she staring at the well. “I did not expect the Well to feel so… hungry.”

“And that doesn’t concern you?” Mahanon asked drily.

“Knowledge begets a hunger for more knowledge. I am willing to pay the price the well demands. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

Solas strode forward then and Mahanon watched him warily, half expecting him to now demand to be the one that drinks. Mages and their lust for power!

“Or more likely to your own ends,” Solas said instead.

Mahanon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise; that had not been what he was expecting at all.

“What would you know of my ‘ends’, elf,” Morrigan snapped back.

Mahanon couldn’t help himself, he had been around Bull and Dorian too long not to give a snort of laughter at that and what innuendo he could pull from it. He wished they were here to make their jokes of it. Though with that thought he grew serious once more; they weren’t here and he had to finish this business so that he could get back to them.

Solas and Morrigan had ignored him in favour of their own argument. “You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast. You cannot be trusted,” Solas was saying.

“I don’t often say this, but I’m inclined to agree with Solas on this,” Mahanon said. Solas seemed as surprised by that as Mahanon had been.

“Of those present, I alone have the training to make use of this,” Morrigan pushed. “Let me drink, Inquisitor!”

Morrigan’s ferocious insistence that she be the one to drink was truthfully the main reason Mahanon was reluctant to allow it, but the fact that she was awaiting his say so when previously she had just acted and asked forgiveness later meant that even she was unsure of what it would lead to. _Ha. There you go Bull, I’m learning to read people already,_ Mahanon thought to himself. He couldn’t say that, however, or he would only likely drive Morrigan to drink with or without his say so. Instead, he said, “You alone? This is my heritage! Once Corypheus is dealt with I could take the knowledge back to my clan, regain at least some of what was lost.” That was true too but, more than that, he wondered if the Well could tell him how to get a cure, to undo the blood magic on them all. It would certainly be faster than Dorian’s research, skilled though he may be.

“I have studied the oldest lore. I have delved into mysteries of which you could only dream. Can you honestly tell me that there is anyone better suited?”

Faerel was Mahanon’s first thought. Faerel would have been willing to drink for the knowledge it would gain and, truthfully, would probably even be happy to be bound as Mythal’s servant should that even still occur. His next thought was Dorian, someone Mahanon had grown to trust, at least a lot more than he had previously, but they had not the time to go fetch him even if he would be willing and Mahanon sincerely doubted he would want to risk being anyone’s thrall, elven god or no.

“Solas?” he asked. He did not like the mage, or trust him all that much, but he did trust that he would do the right thing with the knowledge and power, he wouldn’t use it to destroy the world or anything ridiculous like that. He may even decide to teach others with what it showed.

“No,” he said firmly. “Do not ask me again.”

Well. So much for that. Briefly he thought of Cassandra, of Blackwall, but then dismissed them; they were perhaps even less suited than himself. At least Mahanon had grown up on the stories of the ancient elves even if he hadn’t been forced to study and memorise them all. Cassandra and Blackwall were both shems, they would not have heard any of the stories, knew nothing of the lore. Solas wasn’t willing and he couldn’t allow Morrigan to drink; she was too eager. Which left only one option.

“I would be,” he said, glad at how firm and sure his voice sounded.

“You lead the Inquisition. This is not a risk you can take. I have the best chance of making use of the Well for everyone. Let. Me. Drink.”

Still she pushed! “Perhaps Abelas’s plan to destroy the Well is the best one! All it does is divide people.”

“What happens when Corypheus comes for you again?” Morrigan continued. Mahanon walked away running a hand through his hair, if only to stop himself from punching her in the face. “He is immortal! The wisdom of the Well may include a way to destroy him.” _It may also include a way to end this illness once and for all, something I cannot allow someone like you to find out about,_ Mahanon thought to himself. “Give me this and I fight at your side, I shall be your sword.”

“For as long as it suits you; it is not me you will be bound to,” Mahanon said. Sighing, a hand rubbing the back of his neck, fighting off the headache he could feel, he turned to his other companions. “Thoughts?”

“You have heard my opinion,” Solas said. “She is right about only one thing: we should take the power that lies in that well.” Which meant he wanted Mahanon to be the one to drink. One to Mahanon, zero to Morrigan. He looked to Blackwall.

“I’d trust you with this power more than her… but it’s not for me to decide,” Blackwall said, passing the blame as always. Still, two to Mahanon, zero to Morrigan.

“Cassandra? You’ve been quiet,” Mahanon said.

“She is far too eager but… If it is truly between you and her then let her take the risk. Maker help us all.” So two to Mahanon, one to Morrigan. Add Mahanon’s own opinion, barring those he most wished to consult, and it was three to him.

“Looking at it, listening to it, that’s not just knowledge from ancient elven priests,” Mahanon said, turning back to stare at the Well. “It’s their will.”

“How would you know such a thing?” Morrigan asked, the surprise clear in her voice.

“I may not be a mage but that does not mean I am ignorant to their teachings. Abelas also said as much. The collective will of the priests puts anyone who drinks under a compulsion, a geas. Can’t you feel it?”

“That would match the legends,” Morrigan said. “But it does not tell us what the geas entails. I would still use the Well, but you are right. We should be cautious.”

“No,” Mahanon said. “If anyone is to use the well, it is to be me.”

“So you will take what little knowledge you can understand and let the rest go to waste?” Morrigan demanded sharply.

“It will not be going to waste! I told you, I was raised on the stories, the lore. I may have been bored to tears but that does not mean I do not know them. I’m sorry Morrigan but I cannot trust you. Killing Abelas when he did not harm us directly, without any of the rest of us making a move to attack, proves that you put your own whims above that of the Inquisition. I cannot risk it and there is no time to consult with others or find someone else who I do trust who is better suited which is what I would have preferred. It has to be me.”

Morrigan was silent for a long time, glaring at Mahanon while he returned it, stare for stare, matching her fury with his intensity.

“Perhaps… it is better this way,” Morrigan said after a time. Mahanon tried not to let his surprise show, tried not to gloat. “Do as you will with the Well of Sorrows, Inquisitor. But be careful.”

Mahanon gave a short nod and turned to face the well. Hesitating only a moment, he stepped in, the water swirling around his dirty and bloody feet, cool to the touch but wrong too. It felt more like oil than water and Mahanon grimaced at thought of having to swallow the stuff. He wondered if the strange feeling of the water was because it wasn’t water but spirits. Abelas had said memories but what if it was more than that?

Further Mahanon waded until the tiles beneath his feet levelled out, the water up to his waist. He could hear them now, whispers, welcoming and peaceful. Join us, they say. Drink. Mahanon cupped his hands and drank.

His limbs jerked and Mahanon screamed as it felt as though lightning shot through his limbs until, with an explosion, he fell back beneath the water. Darkness surrounded him. Darkness and whispers.

Mahanon opened his eyes but it was more of a reflex action; there was no difference between his eyes being open and them being closed. “Why am I here?” he wondered aloud looking around and seeing nothing but darkness punctuated by lights. When he spoke, though, the whispering seemed to become louder, more insistent. To business then.

“Corypheus, a magister, wishes to rip the veil open. I must learn how to stop him,” he said. Once more the whispers became louder before falling silent once again. “What about this curse inside me? Or Bull, he’s hurt bad, I need a way to help him, to save him?” Mahanon tried desperately. The whispers responded as they had before. “I can’t understand what you’re saying!” Mahanon snapped, angry now; he did _not_ want to prove Morrigan right! “Will you help me or not?”

The whispers didn’t respond this time, but instead a few balls of light or wisps flew around him, circling him, drawing closer and closer to the mark on his hand until they plunged in. Mahanon screamed again as his mark exploded in pain, his other hand gripping his wrist, its unnatural green light muted and mixed by the wisps’ blue light as more and more streamed through, inside him through the mark on his hand. And all the while Mahanon was curled over it, clutching it in pain as it flared just as painful as when the breach was first opened. The pain grew stronger, crossing the line into agony as more and more wisps force their way through, such that all around him was light, a tiny speck of green and all else blue-white. Then, with a sudden flash, darkness fell once more and the pain vanished.

Voices. Physical ones that his ears were picking up, not the others. “Maker please. Don’t let it end this way.” Cassandra.

Mahanon looked around frantically. It was a swirl of colours and light and shade, voices and movement and his mind couldn’t piece it all together logically. Slowly, his mind made the connection that four of the moving shapes were people, they were hurrying to his side. His companions, seeing if he was alright. Mahanon held a hand out to tell them to wait. Just the sights and sounds of what was going on around him was overwhelming, he didn’t know what would happen if touch was added to it as well. It felt as though his skin was hypersensitive; he could feel every square of cloth, every piece of leather, every buckle of what he was wearing. He could feel the cracked tiles beneath his bare feet, the grains of dirt between his toes, the dried blood from his enemies. He could feel the breeze blowing over exposed skin how it lifted his hair, one strand at a time. How it dried his lips out. He licked them. His eyes grew unfocused as his attention turned to those sensations and, in doing so, he saw his surroundings differently, no ruins, a fully formed beautiful temple, and not his companions with him, but elves, other elves like Abelas, pale with green valaslin. He blinked and it was gone but as soon as he unfocused his eyes, it was back again.

_Concerned. Reassure them._

“Not dead,” Mahanon gasped out, hyper-aware of the movement his throat made to form the sounds, of the way his voice sounded to his own ears.

“How… do you feel?” Blackwall asked slowly.

Mahanon pulled himself to a standing position. “It’s… overwhelming. It’s-” he stumbled a little but caught himself as Cassandra reached out to steady him. He held a hand out to her again, bading her to wait. He had to readjust himself to this, walking was basic. First one step, then another, and with each step blue smoke seemed to swirl around his feet. He was slow, slower than the smoke which continued to ‘step’ ahead of him, leading back in the direction they came from. Were they trying to guide them?

Mahanon followed the smokey steps with his eyes, moving them across the grass and broken stone, the stairs that Abelas had formed, the square where they had dealt with Calpernia, sending her away and out of Corypheus’s grasp, to the balcony where they had first glimpsed the Well. To Corypheus who spotted them at the same time as Mahanon saw him.

The sight of him, alive and whole even after being literally blown to pieces, brought back all his fears and feelings of helplessness that he had felt when he first faced him back in Haven, what felt like a lifetime ago now.

“The eluvian!” Morrigan shouted and Mahanon looked back over his shoulder seeing the mirror active.

“Through the mirror! Go!” Mahanon shouted. He ran after them and kept his hand touched to the surface of the mirror, aware of how he seemed to glow with the same light that lit the mirror from within. One by one his companions leapt through the mirror. The well, which had been empty, seemed to pull water from the very air around it, rising higher and higher as Mahanon watched, a funnel forming and inside it was… a figure?

_Hide._

Mahanon didn’t even think about it, didn’t know whether the thought came from himself, the voices of the Well, or the figure before him, but he acted as though it were his own thought, diving behind the mirror as his glow vanished and the glass turned solid once more. He couldn’t see what was happening, but he could hear it, could hear Corypheus’s roar of fury, could hear the mirror being struck and shattering, the tinkle of glass as it fell to the ground. Mahanon remained still, silent, barely daring to breath, not wanting anything to give his presence away. And so, of course, he felt the warning tickle in his lungs right at that moment. ‘ _Please,’_ he thought, ‘ _if you can help still that even if I must pay the price of it later, let it be stilled until Corypheus leaves.’_ He had no idea if the voices in the Well were actually interested in helping him or if it was just his strong will that the coughing not manifest that somehow stilled the tremor in his chest.

A screech and a flap of wings announced the arrival of Corypheus’s dragon and Mahanon flattened himself to the ground, pressing against the mirror, trying to be as small as possible. A rock, a blemish on the ground, let it think of him as no more than that. Mythal must have been watching over him since he heard the dragon land, and then take off once more followed by nothing but silence. Still, Mahanon remained, not willing to move lest the dragon circle back and see him. At least the others had gotten out safely and Morrigan was with them so she would be able to guide them through the Crossroads to the Skyhold mirror. No doubt they would be worried about him; he would have to find Leliana to use one of her birds to send message back to Skyhold that he was fine, right after…

“Bull!” Mahanon exclaimed as he was flooded with the memory of his partner being shot, falling in a spray of blood. Guilt flooded him as he sprang to his feet once more; he hadn’t thought about Bull since he had emerged in the waking world after drinking from the well. Now though he knew he had to get back.

Keeping to the shadows, using his hunter training, Mahanon retraced their steps and avoided the few enemies he came across. The whispers he could hear were a constant buzzing in his mind and, if he allowed his eyes to unfocus he was once again met with an image of how the temple had been. Sometime later he would come back here, he decided, would record all that the Well allowed him to see. Later. First he had to get back to Bull. With a purpose in mind, something to focus on, the whispers were kept at bay well enough for him to focus on what he was doing. Reaching the doors he found the magic that had once protected them blasted away, the door partially open. Mahanon peeked through. The fighting looked as though it had finished out here as well; there were bodies strewn about but more were Venatori or Sentinal than were Inquisition.

Mahanon slipped through the doors, picking around the dead bodies. He was coughing again, but didn’t even really seem to notice; the voices were whispering again and he was trying to understand what they were saying. It was an odd sensation; if he concentrated he thought one of the words they were repeating was Lathym but he had no idea what that might mean, he had never heard the word or name before. But if he stopped trying, if he focused on something else, understanding seemed to come to him. Mythal they were saying. It was like when he was learning his dagger work for the first time: if he concentrated too hard he was too slow but if he relied on instinct it all came together.

Mahanon was still mulling over this as he reached the area they had left Bull. The bodies they had killed were moved away but otherwise little had been done to the area. The Chargers had made an outward facing ring around them but far enough away to give some privacy to their Chief. Krem and Dorian were kneeling either side of Bull who was still unconscious and, while Dorian’s back was to Mahanon, he could clearly see Krem’s face was white with worry.

Hearing Mahanon approach, Dorian said without turning, “The arrow nicked his lung, it’s beyond my skill to heal. Right now I’m doing the best I can to keep his lung and chest cavity clear of blood while we wait for a proper healer to arrive.”

Mahanon nodded and knelt next to Dorian, a hand reaching out to rest on Bull’s unmoving shoulder as though trying to will him back to health. The qunari’s skin was pallid now, even worse than what he had looked when he slept off the last of the poison after becoming tal vashoth, and it was clammy to the touch. He was breathing in shallow gasps and there was blood coating his lips, blood that every now and then would turn bright red with fresh blood as Dorian constantly moved his attention to where it was most needed.

“How far away is the healer?” Mahanon asked.

“We don’t know,” Krem said. “We sent a runner but they got killed in the fighting, one of our men saw her go down. We sent another and haven’t heard back yet.”

“What about Vivienne and Sera? I sent them here not long after I left,” he asked.

“They came but left when the fighting drew close to here, to draw it away,” Krem answered. “For all that they hate each other they fight well together.”

Mahanon nodded and gritted his teeth as the hand resting on Bull’s shoulder spasmed, his chest constricting. He couldn’t lose Bull just because a more qualified healer didn’t know they were needed! Bull had become his whole world, his rock, there was no way he could face down both Corypheus and his own inevitable death without him by his side!

His chest spasmed again and Mahanon realised as he started coughing once more that it wasn’t just fear and heartache that was causing it but his own damned inconsiderate cough. He turned his head and tried to cough hard, to get it up and over with as quickly as possible. Dorian looked up from what he was doing, his face tired but determined as he reached out a hand to rest on Mahanon’s shoulder, sending his magic towards him as well.

_‘Take it.’_

“What?” Mahanon gasped out between coughs.

Dorian didn’t seem to hear him, but Krem did and frowned. “No one said anything,” he said.

 _‘Take it. Use it.’_ The voices. The voices from the Well were speaking to him. Now he could barely breathe well enough to focus on what they were saying, they were clearest to him. _‘We can show you how to save the qunari.’_

That was all Mahanon needed to know. “Do it,” he said.

Vaguely he was aware of Krem’s irritated, “Do what?” but he ignored him completely, closing his eyes to better focus on what he was being shown. He could not only feel Dorian’s magic inside him, he could see it in his mind’s eye. It was a vaporous blue-red-green while his illness, his curse, was almost exactly as Dorian had once described to him: a greyish-black writhing, thorny, insubstantial mass that was somehow tearing at his lungs, wearing them down.

But that wasn’t what the voices wanted him to focus on, they wanted him to see Dorian’s magic, and the tendril of it that left through his skin and into Dorian himself. Mahanon even had a vague sense of it inside Dorian himself, but, again, that was not what the voices wanted him to see. They wanted him to take hold of the magic that Dorian was pouring into Mahanon, and redirect it into Bull.

With a mental shrug, Mahanon did as they said, let them guide him as he took hold of the magic and followed the length of his arm, into Bull and into his chest where the blood was coming from. The lungs were like sponges, Mahanon realised, and healing them was not the same as knitting skin together the way Dorian had knitted the skin on his hip together; if the lungs were fused in the same fashion they would not be able to shrink and expand with the breath. This was why Dorian had been unable to heal it, he more melted the flesh together to heal, this required rebuilding.

With the voices mentally mapping out what he needed to do with the mana he was manipulating, Mahanon set to the task of rebuilding Bull’s lung.

 

*

 

All of Mahanon’s examination took mere seconds and Dorian gasped as he felt control of his magic wrenched from his grasp by someone who was not supposed to be able to do anything of the sort and then redirected through Mahanon and into Bull. It was a strange and uncomfortable feeling, not painful exactly, but definitely unpleasant. Mahanon was glowing as he did it, bright blue lines appearing over his skin that had a sense of _otherness_ to it, something apart from both Dorian’s magic and the elf himself.

What was more interesting, however, was what Mahanon was doing with the magic he was manipulating. The elf had shown only a passing interest in anatomy at best, and definitely did not have the perseverance to read enough to learn about what he was doing so Dorian had no idea how he knew what to do.

When the mana he was manipulating dwindled, Dorian thought he would finally get some answers, but instead something happened that made Dorian let out a strangled gasp and caused Krem to reach across to steady him. If Mahanon had been a mage, Dorian would have described what he felt as Mahanon using his own mana to reach inside Dorian and _pull_ some of his out. But Mahanon was no mage, he had not even an inkling of any mana, so what it was that he was reaching inside with and harnessing Dorian’s own mana he had no clue about. Now though, Dorian wasn’t even doing any healing himself, just allowing Mahanon to take what he needed.

Three times Mahanon reached inside him to pull out more mana, each time more unpleasant than the last until it became physically painful. Whatever Mahanon was doing, it was working; Bull’s lung was being repaired, his lung and chest cavity emptied of blood and-

And that was where Dorian’s mana level’s dried up, his body’s own defenses finally coming to his rescue for his own safety as he instinctively and forcefully shut Mahanon out. Mahanon sat back blinking, dazed even, as black crowded the edges of Dorian’s vision.

“Lavellan. Don’t… don’t ever do that again,” he got out before the world tilted to the side as the blackness crowded in.

 

*

 

“Vishanti kafas, what did you do, Mahanon?”

Mahanon turned his head slowly from where he was staring at Dorian’s unconscious form to where Krem was gaping at him. He was staring at it, trying to bring it into focus, trying to stop the whispers that were no longer whispering but shouting.

“Mahanon?”

Concern. That was what he was hearing from Krem now. And before had been anger and maybe fear.

“Yes.” He tried to make it toned like a question but it ended up coming out as a statement. Nonetheless, hearing his own voice helped to push Mythal’s voices that much further away.

“What happened in the temple? When did you learn to do… whatever it was you were doing?” Krem asked, his voice fast, the words tumbling out of him such that Mahanon could almost see them.

 _‘Focus. Forget us for now. Focus,’_  the voices were saying, or was that Mahanon himself? _‘Focus on the qunari. He still needs mundane healing.’_

Mahanon felt as though he had been released from… something, a hold he wasn’t even aware he was ensnared in. Like waking up suddenly from a deep sleep and needing a second or two to realise it. He shook his head and rubbed his temples, heedless of the smearing blood, as a headache came on. Bull. What about Bull?

Looking down, he saw that he was starting to rouse from Dorian’s sleeping spell, his eyelid fluttering. His chest still had two gaping wounds, both still bleeding. In fact there was blood everywhere, the ground was soaked with it, the grass trampled, making it more of a bloody sort of mud. Mahanon picked up the already soaked wads of cloth Dorian had been using - someone’s shirt? - and pressed them back to the wounds.

“Is a healer coming? The internal damage is mostly healed but these need stitching,” he said to Krem.

Relief washed over the lieutenant’s face but then it hardened and he looked around. “Skinner. Grim. Go find a damned healer. Stick together and don’t get killed. Rocky, go find Stitches, he can at least see to the basics. The rest of you see about making camp here, we won’t be able to move the chief so-”

“No,” Mahanon cut in. “It’s filthy here, he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get sick as it is.” Still holding the cloth to Bull’s side he looked around and nodded with his chin to a hill where it looked as though there hadn’t been as much fighting. “Over there. It will be easier for the others to find us as well.”

Krem nodded. “You heard the Inquisitor, get to it!” he snapped and then all around them was activity.

“Boss?”

The voice was no more than a rasp but it drew all of Mahanon’s attention. Bull’s face was pale, his lips bloody from where each breath had brought up fresh blood. Despite all that, Mahanon felt his heart leap when Bull’s eye focussed on him. “Ma vhenan, how do you feel?” he asked softly.

“Like I wrestled a dragon barehanded and lost,” he started to laugh but stopped with a wince when the movement hurt. “Like that would ever happen.”

“Oh yeah? I could definitely see you attempting to wrestle a dragon with your bare hands,” Mahanon said, trying to lighten the mood a little, to relieve his worry.

“Not that part. The losing bit.” Bull’s eye moved up and down Mahanon, taking his appearance in. “You look like shit.”

Mahanon snorted at that. “Trust me, you look worse at the moment. We’re just waiting for your boys to set up camp then we’ll move you and Dorian up there so you can get cleaned up and fixed up.”

“What happened to Dorian?” Bull asked.

“Yes. What did happen to Dorian?” Krem added, though his voice was a lot sterner than Bull’s.

“He’s just exhausted. I think. I… he… all his magic was poured into you to repair the internal damage. It’s a long story, I’ll figure it out when I get a chance,” he ended.

Krem seemed willing to accept that, though Mahanon could tell Bull would want a full accounting. Word would spread and while most people probably wouldn’t dare confront him directly with what he had done he knew that he would at least have to speak to his advisors about it all, inform them what had happened not only in the temple but after. For now though, he just wanted to ensure Bull was looked after.

It was only half an hour after the initial order was given that Dalish came back to tell them camp was set up enough to get the two of them moved. A makeshift stretcher was brought up and Dorian bundled onto it but, as Krem had predicted, no one was strong enough to lift Bull; he would have to try to make his way there on his own. Taking it slow and easy, they helped him into a sitting position, then into a standing one, leaning heavily on both Krem and Stitches while Mahanon was close by, still pressing the wads of cloth to the wounds.

Slowly, carefully, they picked their way up the hill to the camp that had been set up and into the tent provided.

“Where’s Dorian?” Mahanon asked as they maneuvered Bull to sit on a cot where Stitches could clean and stitch up the wounds.

“He’s just sleeping so we left him to it in his own tent,” the brusque surgeon said.

First one, then another bucket of water was brought in, the first placed next to the cot so Stitches could clean Bull’s side and the second on the small fold-out table that Mahanon was standing near. Dalish heated them both until they were steaming and Mahanon wisely decided not to call her out on her unusual ‘archery’ skills; it didn’t matter that Circles no longer existed, or that no one in the Inquisition would allow her to be forced into any situation she didn’t want to be simply because of her magic, it had become a matter of pride for the elf to never admit her magic even when blatantly displaying it now.

Stitches opened his bag and started laying out what he would need, tossing a clean cloth to Mahanon with the words, “You should clean yourself up too.”

“I will later,” Mahanon said, carefully laying the cloth over the edge of the bucket so it wouldn’t get dirty. “Let me help.”

“Not with those hands. Clean them all the way up to the elbow at least, spotless, then you can help.”

Mahanon caught the lip twitch Bull shot his way and returned it with a grin; all of the Chargers were generally fairly deferential out in the field, apart from the odd smart comment of course, but here, in this tent, while Stitches was doing his work, everyone was his charge to order about as he saw fit. And truthfully, Mahanon thought as he examined his hands, he really ought to clean them. There wasn’t a bare patch of skin on them, coated as they were in blood, both Bull’s and his enemies, the nails were torn and ragged, and there was mud and even a blade of grass caught under one nail. Opting to use the water that was being used in the same manner for Bull and save the other bucket for a proper clean later, he began to scrub at his arms and hands. Only once they had passed inspection by the surgeon (likely cleaner than they had been in weeks) was he allowed to help with stitching Bull up, though he had to stop and turn away when he began to cough again. He stood and moved off to the side of the tent both so he didn’t anger Stitches by coughing on his patient and also so he wouldn’t see the strain Mahanon was under in keeping the coughing minimal.

“Done,” Stitches announced as he tied the last knot on the bandages. “Now you’re under orders to lie down and rest; you’ve lost a lot of blood and need time to recover it. And you,” he said turning to Mahanon. “You should get the healer to check that cough if he ever arrives.” With that he left.

Bull chuckled even as he held a hand to his side to brace against the movement. “He may be a good surgeon, but he sure is bossy,” he said. He held a hand out and Mahanon moved to take it, sitting in the seat Stitches had recently vacated. “You ok, boss?”

“How can you ask that? You’re the one who took an arrow through the chest. And to protect me, no less,” Mahanon said, looking away, the same fear and pain bubbling up in his gut once more as he had felt right when it happened.

“Hey, I’m fine. Will take more than a puny arrow to down me,” he said. Mahanon gritted his teeth against pointing out just how close it had come to downing him. If it wasn’t for Dorian’s magic and the voices in his head, especially since the healer _still_ hadn’t arrived, it would have been too much. “You got your incense here?” he asked when Mahanon started coughing again.

Mahanon shook his head. “It’s back at the base camp. I’ll be fine.” He squeezed Bull’s hand and stood, going over to the tent flap and untying it so it fell in place.

“So, you going to tell me what happened?” Bull said as he watched Mahanon begin to take his jacket and shirt off to clean off the blood and muck of the day. “I’m guessing since we’re both still alive we won.”

Mahanon smiled. “Yeah, we won.” He laughed a little. “Blew Coryphi-shit into little gooey pieces actually. Well we didn’t but those elves did. Still, that was awesome even if he did kinda, well, regrow back.”

“Regrow back? Hrnph, I guess dropping some gaatlok on him won’t be enough then.”

“Unfortunately not. We also found the mirror and a magic well with the knowledge of some ancient elven priests,” he said, staring into the bucket of water. The water was turning red and brown now, blood and mud swirling with the motion of the cloth to intermingle with the clear water, rather like how the magic had swirled around in the Well before Mahanon had submerged himself in it.

“Boss?”

The voices were whispering again now, though Mahanon once more couldn’t be sure what they were saying. It was all insubstantial, meaningless, or so it seemed, once more as though they were speaking another language that he had once known and only forgotten.

“Mahanon!”

Mahanon blinked and turned with a raised eyebrow at the sound of his own name. “What?” he asked.

Bull was sitting up in the cot and staring at him, his face unreadable. “You zoned out for a while there,” he said slowly.

Mahanon smiled and waved it off, “It’s nothing. I was thinking, is all. I should probably wait to tell the whole thing for when the others get here. A fair bit happened in that temple, I would rather not have to tell it over and over again. I’ll go find another cot to bring in here, maybe get a snooze in while we wait. And you should lay back down and sleep as well; you lost way too much blood to just be sitting up already.”

“Yeah yeah,” was all Bull said as he lay back down and, while his tone was light and teasing, Mahanon could tell he was worried.

Walking over to the cot, rested a hand on Bull’s chest and said, “I’m fine. Really. We won a major victory today against Corypheus, I’m just exhausted.” He leaned down and kissed Bull on the forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

 

*

 

Mahanon was flying, only he wasn’t Mahanon any more. He was someone else, _something_ else, something greater, grander than plain Mahanon. He could see all of Thedas from up here, including the tiny shem and their clusters of buildings following imaginary lines. None of it meant anything to him, he was superior to all that.

He was needed. There was something calling to him, something ancient. It was not a call he wished to heed but it was a call he was powerless to ignore. With a frustrated roar he turned south.

“North.”

“What?”

Mahanon opened his eyes, blinked, and opened them again. Tent, cot, stench of death. Arbor Wilds. The Well, whispering voices, yes, yes.

Pushing the voices and the dream he barely remembered away, Mahanon sat up and saw Cullen had taken the stool and was sitting there cleaning his armour. Or had been, he had obviously stopped when he said something to Mahanon.

“What is it?” Mahanon asked.

“I asked you the same thing. You said something right before you woke up, sounded like ‘north’,” Cullen said, confusion written on his face.

Mahanon gave a one shouldered shrug. “Probably nothing, just a dream or something. Are the others here as well?” he asked as he swung his legs over the side of the small cot he had commandeered as his own. Bull was still sleeping, he saw, but with relief he also noticed that it seemed to be a peaceful sleep, not the forced unconsciousness Dorian’s sleep spell induced.

Perhaps seeing where his gaze lingered, Cullen said, “A healer came by to check on him while you were sleeping, expressed surprise at the healing Dorian had done, confirmed there was no infection and nothing he needed to do, and left citing that he had more grievously injured patients yet to see.”

“ _I_ did nothing of the sort,” Dorian declared as he ducked through the tent’s doorway. Mahanon gave a slow smile seeing him up and about even if he did have rings under his eyes so dark it looked as though he had been punched. “That healing was all Lavellan.”

Mahanon sighed, his relief at seeing Dorian quickly replaced by irritation, even as Cullen turned his confused look to Mahanon. “It’s a long story. One I would rather explain only once. “

“Where are the others who were with you?” Cullen asked.

“Back at Skyhold I assume,” Mahanon said. “Another part to that long story I’m promising you,” he added. Cullen pursed his lips but didn’t comment further. “How went our forces in other areas. We helped those we could on our way but I doubt it was enough.”

“We lost more to those elves than Corypheus’s forces surprisingly enough. The Venatori didn’t bother to hide their presence, the elves came and went leaving no trace other than bodies riddled with arrows,” Cullen said. “We saw Corypheus and his demon quit the field, abandoning the rest of his Venatori to be mopped up by our forces, though no one knows why.”

“Because what he came for was no longer of any use to him,” Mahanon said.

“That’s when you found the mirror?” Bull asked.

Mahanon smiled down at him, glad to see he was awake, and nodded. “Yes. It’s smashed now, useless to him.”

“That is something at least,” Leliana said as she entered the tent. “Josie has began the trek back to Skyhold to spread the news of our victory here, but she wished me to pass on her congratulations to you, Inquisitor.”

Mahanon nodded wearily. “Leliana, I need you to send one of your birds ahead of her. Blackwall, Solas, Morrigan and Cassandra got through the mirror in time and are likely back at Skyhold now. Cassandra and Blackwall at least will probably be worried about me since I didn’t make it through before it was smashed.”

Leliana nodded and stuck her head outside the tent. Calling to a servant, she had a bird and writing utensils brought to the tent and penned a note while Mahanon explained what had happened, how Corypheus had been caught in a trap set by the elves but it didn’t work, how they had confronted Calpernia and sent her back to Tevinter after making her realise that Corypheus was only going to use her and her countrymen.

“That’s something at least,” Dorian said to that. “Though I’m not sure her ideals for a reformed Tevinter align with mine.”

“She was kind to the slaves she bought, that’s more than can be said of a lot of Tevinter,” Mahanon pointed out.

“True enough,” Dorian allowed.

Mahanon told of how they had come across the Well, how Morrigan had beaten the head sentinel elf Abelas to it and how she had killed him. He told them what he had learned of the Well’s origins and its nature. And then came the decision on who would drink from the well, Mahanon or Morrigan.

“I hope you didn’t allow her to,” Bull said.

Mahanon shook his head.

“So what?” Dorian demanded. “You drank? Are you insane? You willingly bound yourself to the will of an ancient god? Who’s to say this god isn’t as insane as Corypheus?”

“It’s Mythal. She was fairly kind as far as the gods go, motherly. If she even exists any more which I doubt, I would rather be bound to her than some of the others, Fen’Haral for example. Besides, the only evidence I’ve had of any of the stories being true is in the temple I could sometimes see how it used to look before it was destroyed, and voices in my head sometimes.”

“Voices? What kind of voices?” Leliana asked.

Mahanon shook his head. “Just… voices. Whispers. Most of the time I can’t understand them. The voices told me how to heal Bull but they did not control me.”

“You were glowing, Lavellan,” Dorian pointed out.

“Glowing?” Cullen demanded.

“I was?” Mahanon asked at the same time.

“You had bright blue symbols and lines that were glowing on your skin. If that’s not a sign that you were under some old god’s spell I don’t know what is.”

“I wasn’t though!” Mahanon protested. “It was entirely of my own free will, my own choice that I did that. I _had_ to or Bull-” His voice hitched there and he looked away. He felt Bull’s hand surround his own and give it a squeeze. “If I didn’t Bull would have died, no healer would have arrived in time,” he continued, his voice calmer. He looked up to Dorian then and said, “I’m sorry I drained you and that I didn’t explain what I was doing. It didn’t occur to me, I was too focussed on what had to be done.”

“It’s alright Lavellan,” Dorian said softly, the hint of a small smile under that ridiculous moustache of his. “Though to make it up to me you simply must tell me exactly how you did it, not just how you siphoned off my magic, but how you rebuilt Bull’s lung.”

“Rebuilt a lung?” Bull repeated.

Mahanon quirked a smile and nodded down at him. Bull didn’t return it but he was looking at Mahanon intently. His eye dropped down to Mahanon’s chest then back up to his face. Mahanon gave a small shrug; he didn’t know if it would work on him. He would be willing to try when they returned to Skyhold though, if Dorian was willing to help of course.

Mahanon continued his report, telling of how Corypheus in his reformed body had caught up to him and that he had become the key to that eluvian. How the others got through but Mahanon had not the time so hid behind the mirror. “Cowardly, perhaps,” he added, somewhat embarrassed about how he had crouched behind the mirror like a child from monsters under the aravel.

“Not cowardly, smart,” Cullen said. “You could have faced him, maybe even won, but until we know how he rebuilds himself it would have been a temporary victory at best, or your death at worst. Better to withdraw, learn more about the enemy, and strike from a position of power later.”

Mahanon nodded, comforted at least that his commander, someone far more skilled at tactics than he, believed that he had done the right thing.

“Besides,” Bull added. “I would have been pissed if you took him on without me. A chance to see you take down a god? I’m not gonna miss that!”

Mahanon laughed but that in turn triggered a coughing fit and he stood to turn away from the others. It was a bad one he realised as he gasped in air only to cough it out again. He was light headed and, to his utter mortification, it wasn’t long until his legs gave out beneath him. In an instant Dorian was there beside him, his hand resting on his shoulder. “I have not the mana yet to do as I have done before,” he said, his voice low. “But if it will help take what you need.”

Mahanon tried, he tried to repeat what he had done before, tried to seek out the voices that had instructed him, but they were silent. Wide eyes sought out Dorian and he shook his head, gasping out, “Can’t,” between coughs.

Bull was sitting up, trying to gather his strength to stand and Mahanon wanted to tell him to stay where he was but he had not the breath. “His incense burner,” Bull was saying. “It’s in his tent, main camp. It’s the only thing that may help. Keep this quiet!” he added as Cullen ducked out of the tent.

Bull’s last words gave Mahanon an idea; if Dorian didn’t have the mana to help him, something that was outside his normal skillset anyway and something Mahanon had learned took a lot of mana from the mage, perhaps keeping this quiet was something he could do. He deliberately coughed hard, then wheezed in a breath and got out, “Silence tent,” before he was overcome with coughing again.

“That I can do,” Dorian said and, with a wave of his hand the noises from outside quietened, became muffled.

“You need not fear this getting out, Inquisitor,” Leliana said. “Outside there are only the Chargers and my most trusted agents.”

Mahanon nodded, wanted to reassure her that he didn’t doubt her, that it was solely a comfort to him that it could stay within this tent only, but he didn’t have the breath to do so. Later, he would tell her later, always later. Maybe he would even take her shoe shopping; he had heard how excited the woman had become over the various shoe styles at the Winter Palace.

Bull was up then and moved over to where Mahanon was, sitting on the ground next to him and pulling him in to rest against his chest. He held a washcloth out and Mahanon took it and held it to his mouth; his hand was slick from the blood he was bringing up such that he could no longer hide it. Encircled in Bull’s arms, smelling his scent, was soothing, comforting, reassuring when, quite frankly, he was terrified of this latest attack. Maybe this was the price he had to pay for convincing the Well voices to silence his coughing earlier. Better now than when Corypheus could hear him but scary nonetheless.

Sometime later, Cullen re-entered the tent and put the incense burner down, some of the herb still in it from when Mahanon had used it last night. He was fumbling around in his pockets for a flint but stopped when a snap of Dorian’s fingers conjured a small flame in the burner, smoke rising almost immediately.

“Pass a towel?” Bull asked, holding his hand out. Leliana was closest and handed him one without a word and Bull draped it over Mahanon’s head, moving the incense burner closer, trapping the smoke between his body and the towel so that would be all Mahanon could breathe. He closed his eyes and focussed only on breathing, of getting as much of the horrid smoke into his lungs as he could.

 

*

 

Slowly, much too slowly for Bull’s liking, the coughing became less and less. Mahanon didn’t move though, and Bull suspected he was likely in an exhausted sleep. _Let him stay that way_ , he thought; Bull was sore but Mahanon was dying and that was the difference.

“It’s getting worse,” Leliana said. Bull gave a single nod; he wasn’t surprised that she knew about it enough to know it was getting worse though he wondered if Mahanon was aware that she knew.

“This has to stay within this tent. No one else must know,” Bull said, his voice low so as to not disturb Mahanon. “He’ll likely be pissed enough that you both know now without it going further.”

“What about Josie?” Leliana asked. “She suspects something, though she more believes the smoke an opiate to help deal with stress.”

Bull thought about it then eventually nodded. “She can know,” he said eventually. Let Mahanon be angry at him about that later; it would be best if their ambassador knew what was going on as she at least would understand how important it was for it not to get out to the rest of the Inquisition and the rest of the world. She would be best suited to fend off any queries about it should any arise if she knew the truth of what was going on.

“How long has this been going on?” Cullen asked. “Surely not…” He sat down heavily then as certain events and coincidences clicked into place for him. “He had a cough after Haven but assured me it was just a winter cough, nothing to be concerned about,” he said.

“At that stage it would have been nothing to be concerned about,” Dorian said, he sat down on the bed that Bull had vacated. “I doubt even he knew how serious it would become at that stage.”

“Is it contagious? Should we be concerned about it spreading?” Cullen asked.

“If it were contagious, wouldn’t Bull have already caught it?” Leliana said, a cheeky smile on her lips. Bull gave her a wink and a grin as Cullen turned slightly pink.

“It’s not contagious,” Dorian said. “It’s not even truly an illness. I have been studying it and believe it to be warped healing magic altered with blood magic. A truly genious design but one that has so far meant a cure has eluded us. We need to find one in the next month or else...”

“A month?” Bull demanded sharply. Though he quieted when he felt Mahanon stir against him. “What do you mean a month?”

Dorian stared at him for a moment. “Then Lavellan didn’t tell you. He asked me to estimate how long he had left if things kept continuing at the same rate they were. I told him about six months if things keep progressing as they were. That was three months ago and I did not expect to see him this bad so soon. My original estimate was probably too generous.”

Bull felt his heart twist inside him as he looked down at the huddled mass against him. “No, he didn’t tell me,” he said quietly. All that time, counting down the days, carrying such a weight on his own? Bull had known that something was worrying him but he put it down to general concern about himself, his clan, the Inquisition, Corypheus; there was a mountain of things his little spitfire of an Inquisitor had to worry about without adding a timeline to his own mortality.

“We’ll ah… We’ll take our leave, get the forces moving to head home,” Cullen said.

“Yes. You two follow when you’re able, don’t rush things,” Leliana said.

Bull looked up and gave a grateful nod to the both of them as they took their leave. Dorian was standing as well and said, “My tent is right next to this one. He should be alright for a while now, but if he starts coughing again call out for me.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Bull said sincerely.

Dorian nodded and with a wave of his hand lifted the silencing spell on the tent. He too then took his leave.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he murmured to the huddled mass against him, though in truth he already knew the answer. Mahanon hadn’t wanted to worry him, not about something he couldn’t do anything about. But still… “I could have helped you bear it.”

  
  
  
  



	31. Whispers in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon faces a soul crushing choice and prepares to face Corypehus.

Mahanon slept the rest of the day and well into the evening. When he woke he found that someone had left an oil lamp burning in their tent for light and Bull was asleep on his own cot, fresh bandages around his chest. Mahanon felt as though his own chest was burning still, but he could breathe. Sitting up he walked over to where Bull was sleeping. His limbs were thrashing in his sleep, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t wearing his eyepatch and the scar tissue that was normally covered was twitching as though trying to open when it no longer would. 

“Bull,” Mahanon said quietly. “Wake up, ma vehnan. You’re having a nightmare.” He reached out and lightly rested a hand on Bull’s shoulder. Faster than Mahanon could have reacted, Bull’s remaining eye flew open and locked on Mahanon, but there was no recognition there. He was up and pushed Mahanon back, a foot hooking behind Mahanon’s ankle and tripping him backwards, narrowly missing the table with the oil burner on it as he landed abruptly on his back. Bull had Mahanon’s right hand, what would normally be his weapon hand if he didn’t use both, pinned and his other around his throat, easily crushing it.

_ ‘He is trapped in memories,’  _ Mahanon heard the voices say and, if his own situation weren’t so dire, if he weren’t fighting off his own memories, he would have rolled his eyes at the comment. A couple of times Bull had pushed or hit when waking up from a nightmare, though Mahanon had never told him that not wanting to worry or upset him. He had been told some stories of what had gone on in Saheron, though he was sure they were just the more tame ones. 

Forcing down his own panic, Mahanon reached up with his free hand and gently cupped Bull’s cheek, his thumb rubbing softly, trying to pull him back from those memories without the use of his voice.

Slowly, the grip around Mahanon’s throat eased and he was able to suck in a breath. Bull’s eye blinked several times and then with a gasp, he threw his hands away before bringing them back again but this time to gather Mahanon close, to pull him into a tight hug against his chest, sitting back heavily. “Kadan, oh Kadan, I’m so sorry, I-”

Mahanon pulled back a little to look up at him. With a small smile, he stroked his cheek again. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “I’m not hurt.” He frowned then though; Bull’s face was warm and his chest was exuding heat. Turning his hand around to feel Bull’s face with the back of his hand he said, “You have a fever though. Come on, you should get back into bed.”

“Not yet,” Bull said, pulling Mahanon close again. “Just… just let me hold you for a little bit.”

Mahanon nodded and leaned back in against him. “I’m here,” he said. “For as long as you need.”

 

*

 

It turned out what Bull needed was three days in order for the fever to break; despite their best efforts, the arrow’s exit wound had become infected. Once Stitches had determined that he was strong enough to travel they had packed camp and started on the way back to Skyhold. They still took their time as Mahanon was also quick to tire, though only Bull, Dorian, and Krem seemed to know the true reason why. Bull was willing to take the blame, let the others believe that he was the reason they were taking so long. 

“I will never understand why qunari warriors spend half their time running around bare-chested,” Dorian declared one evening around the camp fire. Mahanon smiled a little as he worked at changing Bull’s dressings while the qunari sat patiently in the grass by the fire. The entry wound was clean and neat and healing well, but the exit wound was still red and inflamed, oozing puss when pressed. Mahanon poured some alcohol onto a cloth and dabbed at it. Bull gave no reaction other than his skin rippling a little under Mahanon’s touch. 

“Thought you’d appreciate that,” Bull teased Dorian in response. Mahanon just smirked, used to their flirting now.

“It’s  _ stupid _ . They should wear armour,” Dorian insisted.

“You see a member of the Beresaad in full armour, you run, because it’s war,” Bull said.

“They should wear armour  _ all the time _ !”

“Then they’d have to invade everyone. You’re so bloodthirsty.”

Mahanon laughed at that even if Dorian just gave up with a frustrated growl and retired to his tent for the evening. 

Mahanon and Bull were companionably silent as he finished tying the bandages. Finishing the last knot, Mahanon said, “Something’s been bothering you.”

“Mmm,” was all Bull said.

“If it’s about what happened the other night, I already have an idea for a solution,” he said.

“Oh?” Bull said, his interest caught and he watched as Mahanon sat down next to him. 

“Bells,” Mahanon said. “When you wake up sometimes it takes a bit before you realise you’re not still in Saheron right? I do something or say something as you wake which is what someone else did there that was threatening. Well, I’m betting there weren’t soft jingling bells there, so if I wear bells on my wrists when I go to sleep, if something happens to get you lost in a memory like that again, you’ll hear bells and wake up properly cause the sound won’t align with your memory.” Bull was silent for a long time, long enough that Mahanon thought maybe he didn’t like the idea. “It doesn’t have to be bells of course,” he continued. “It could be any sound, but noise penetrates dreams before any vision does, so I thought-” he broke off with a squeak when Bull reached out and pulled, causing Mahanon to fall sideways across him so he was laying on his legs. 

“I think that’s a fantastic idea,” he said and Mahanon grinned up at him, relieved. 

Wriggling around and rolling on to his side so that he was facing the fire, he was starting to doze when Bull spoke again his voice quiet, “Why didn’t you tell me you only had a few months left to live?”

Mahanon’s back stiffened at the question. Immediately he was angry at Dorian for even mentioning such a thing to Bull but then he let that anger go; after what had happened the other night, where he had a nasty onset of his cough in front of everyone, he wouldn’t have been surprised if such a thing was discussed after he had passed out. Dorian had no way to know that Bull didn’t know.

Bull was silent, patiently waiting for an answer. Mahanon knew he wouldn’t drop it so eventually said, “What was the point? It was only an estimate at best, Dorian made that clear, and we were already doing everything we could. Telling you would change nothing.”

“If you had told me I could have helped you. At least distract you.”

“You already do,” Mahanon said and, with a playful smile, nipped at the knee beneath his cheek. 

“That’s not what I mean,” Bull growled, though a hand began stroking through his hair soothingly.

Mahanon sighed. “I know. Can we… not talk about this please? What will be will be. If I have three weeks or three years to live I would rather spend it focussed on what matters most at the time.”

Bull was quiet before eventually saying, “All right. I won’t bring it up unless you do. Just remember you can tell me anything and I can help you work through it.”

“I know,” was all Mahanon said before closing his eyes. 

 

*

 

Corypheus is furious. Mahanon watched as he lashes out at those closest to him. He is shouting but Mahanon cannot understand what he says, as though he speaks another language. His dragon is there with him also, always watching, always willing to devour any its master allows. The two are bound together, somehow Mahanon knows this. 

The image changes. He is inside the temple in the Arbor Wilds, looking out from the eyes of a sentinel elf. He is vaguely aware of the ancient elf’s thoughts but they are separate from his own. However, with his eyes he can see what occurred there on that bridge from a new vantage point. He can even see where he and his companions crouching in hiding. But his gaze was drawn back to Corypheus in time to see him explode. From there something extraordinary happened. There was a light, golden but twisted, red laced through it like a disease. It flew up into the air and with a sight that defied logic, Mahanon followed it. It travelled an unknown distance to where Corypheus’s dragon was flying and entered it.

_ An ancient one, corrupted. _

The dragon flew over the temple, high enough that it was not seen but low enough that the twisted golden light could escape it once more and shoot downwards. Mahanon followed it, hurtling towards the ground at incredible speed only to stop suddenly when he saw the light enter the body of a Grey Warden. 

_ The ancient one is the conduit _ .

So killing the dragon would at least disrupt if not destroy Corypheus’s ability to change bodies. Of course that would be no easy task; yes the Inquisitor and his party had defeated a wild high dragon before, but it was not empowered with red lyrium as this one was, nor did it share a mind with something like Corypheus. 

The vision before Mahanon dissolved and changed. He was himself again but somewhere different. A lush green valley of some kind, and an ancient elven temple at his back. There was another dragon before him, a high dragon but not one that was corrupted. 

_ Mythal’s gift. You must choose. _

Choose what? Mahanon wondered. 

He was moving then, walking towards the dragon who sat calmly watching him. A passenger in his own body, he watched as he stopped right in front of the dragon’s face and blue light flared, winding between the two of them, binding them. With his mind’s eye he could see how to summon the high dragon to his aid, and could see him doing so when fighting Corypheus in a hellish landscape, could see how his high dragon could fight Corypheus’s, weaken it enough to be killed so Corypheus could, in turn, be killed.

The vision changed. Instead of standing in front of the high dragon, bonding with it, he was approaching it with a bared dagger in hand. “I’m sorry,” that self said and he thrust the dagger into the dragon’s neck, drawing it across an artery and using a bowl to catch the blood that spilled. He then saw Dorian working magic over the blood, changing it and bottling it, giving one bottle to Mahanon. He drank and the darkness within him, the curse that was killing him seemed to come alight burning away. There was pain, a lot of it, but once it passed the corruption was gone. Damage remained but the damage could be healed now. He saw the bottles being passed out among his clan, them drinking and healing.

_ Mythal’s gift. You must choose. _

 

*

 

Bull became aware of the absence by his side almost before he even came awake. Opening his eye he stared at the ceiling of the Inquisitor’s room, becoming aware of his surroundings once more. Skyhold. Yes. They had returned to Skyhold just this evening tired, sore and cold from the road. Other than reassuring Cassandra and Blackwall, who had both been eagerly awaiting their return, that Mahanon was fine and had escaped Corypheus’s clutches unaided, that Leliana’s message was indeed correct, they had retired almost immediately to Mahanon’s room and soon after to bed. Bull was still sore, the exit wound hot and aching and Mahanon had been fussing. 

Now though, the usual spot where the elf curled against his side was cold. Slowly, taking care of his injuries, Bull sat up. He saw Mahanon sitting on the rug by the fireplace, his back to Bull, seemingly lost in thought.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Bull approached and sat down next to the elf. Still he didn’t stir. He was awake, his eyes were open, but he seemed oblivious to what was around him, staring into the flames and only occasionally blinking. He looked like he had just before the serious coughing fit in the Arbor Wilds.

“Kadan?” Bull said, worry starting to claw at him.

No response. 

“Mahanon?”

As before, that seemed to get a reaction and Mahanon blinked once, twice, then seemed to straighten as though being woken and turned to look at Bull with a smile. 

“I’m sorry, did I wake you? I tried to be quiet,” he said. 

“You ok?” Bull asked.

Mahanon nodded. “I’m fine, it’s just… I was thinking.”

“About?”

Mahanon sighed softly, and ran a hand through his hair. Bull could tell he didn’t want to speak about it, wanted to carry the whole world and everyone in it on his narrow shoulders. Bull wasn’t about to allow that if he could help it, not this time. If whatever it was was enough to wake him and keep him awake, to not respond when spoken to, it was something serious that should be shared.

“The voices, the ones from the Well. The noise from them is constant but most of the time I can just ignore it, block it out. Kind of like the sounds of training below when Cullen is working the troops. It’s there but you don’t pay any attention to it. But when it’s quiet, or when I’m asleep or on the verge of sleep, it’s harder.”

“What sort of things do they say?” Bull asked. 

“It varies. Often it’s mindless just ‘trust Mythal’ or Mythal that. When I was healing you it wasn’t even words they were communicating just… a sense, like the meaning of the words without the actual need to voice them.”

“And this time?” Bull pressed.

“This time it was a dream, one I remembered. I suspect they’ve shown me dreams before but I usually don’t remember them after I wake, just a vague sense of unease. This was different. Mythal offers a gift to help me. And a choice. I…” he trailed off and ran his hand through his hair once more, something Bull had come to associate with distress. But the fact that Mahanon hadn’t already leaned in towards him told him that he didn’t want to be held. Instead, he reached out a hand and rested it on Mahanon’s knee, a silent reassurance. Mahanon, for his part, rested his own hand on top and gave it a squeeze. 

“This gift that Mythal is offering,” he said. “It’s a high dragon.” Bull’s eye widened and practically lit up at that. A dragon of their own? Mahanon, seeing the expression, chuckled and gave the hand a squeeze. “The dragon can be used one of two ways. The first, obviously, is it can be used in the fight against Corypheus. To weaken his dragon and kill it so we can then kill him.” Bull frowned; this was new to him, that killing the red lyrium dragon would allow them to kill Corypheus, but he didn’t want to interrupt Mahanon, not while he was willing to talk about this. “The second is blood from the dragon can be used in some magic ritual that can create a cure for myself and my clan. I need to choose how the gift is used: against Corypheus as a weapon, or in some blood magic ritual as a cure.”

An impossible choice, Bull thought. But then, perhaps, not so impossible. Hadn’t he been forced to make such an impossible choice? Sacrifice the few for the good of the Inquisition and gain an alliance, or save the few and perhaps sacrifice the many and lose the mercenary band he had come to care about. He did not regret his decision even if he did wonder what if sometimes. He hoped the same could be said for Mahanon.

“Choose the cure,” he said. 

“But the dragon-” 

“Can still be defeated,” Bull cut in. “We defeated one dragon, we can defeat another.”

“We haven’t defeated one that spits red lyrium instead of flames.”

“The tactics are the same though: don’t get hit.”

Mahanon gave a snort of laughter at that but fell silent once more, staring into the flames and lost in thought. Bull remained where he was, content to just sit with him.

 

*

 

“I’m pleased to report we won the battle Inquisitor,” Cullen said, moving one of the Inquisition flags over the Arbor Wilds on the map on the war table. “Corypheus spent so long trying to get in to the temple that when he lost what he came for he would not have been able to help his forces. They quit the field.”

“Then, Corypheus is finished?” Josephine asked hopefully and Mahanon smiled a little sadly at the optimism in her voice.

“If he is wise, he will hide and build his strength before he attacks again,” Leliana said.

_ ‘He will not hide.’ _

“He will not hide,” Mahanon repeated absently. The voices from the Well seemed particularly incessant since he walked in to the council meeting. Not that he could really understand them most of the time.

“You hear it,” Morrigan said, staring at him, a sense of wonder in her voice. “The Well speaks to you.”

Josephine had already been caught up on what had transpired at the well, so Mahanon said, “It’s… voices, mostly. Whispering from so far away I can barely hear them.”

Morrigan groaned in frustration, then snapped, “If only one who understood such voices had used the Well’s power instead.”

“Then we’d have to rely on  _ her _ interpretation of them and whatever she chose to tell us,” Leliana pointed out.

“Have I not been forthcoming enough for you, Spymaster?” Morrigan demanded.

“You have been forthcoming, but you have not always acted in the best interests of the Inquisition. Abelas could have been subdued without killing him and then the knowledge that he had could have been shared instead of destroyed.  _ That _ is why I chose to drink myself.”

“I told you what the well could have done, Inquisitor,” Morrigan continued. “You should be hearing shouts from the heavens, not whispers!”

Mahanon decided he wouldn’t contradict her on that, wouldn’t bring up the dreams, visions and other senses. If he did, he would no doubt just be quizzed on what each of them meant and until he knew himself it was pointless even going in to that. “Then help me,” he said instead. “Isn’t that what you came here to do?”

Morrigan paused, then said, “When you called this meeting you said you knew what needed to be done next. What did you mean by that?”

“One of the things the Well has made clear to me is that the dragon is not an archdemon,” he said.

“Thank the Maker for that,” Cullen said. “One blight in a lifetime is enough.”

“Agreed,” Leliana said. 

“If it’s not an archdemon then what is it?” Josephine asked.

“A dragon in which Corypheus has invested part of his power. The red lyrium that has infected and twisted Corypheus has in turn infected and twisted the dragon. We kill the dragon and his ability to jump to other bodies is disrupted for a time. He can be killed and stay dead.”

“That’s… no simple task,” Leliana said slowly. “Corypheus alone is powerful, but with his dragon…”

“There is a way, but I will need Morrigan’s help to find the place,” he said; though he was loath to admit it he needed the witch. 

“The voices from the Well tell you that, do they?” Morrigan said. Mahanon gave a single nod. “Very well, Inquisitor. Speak to me when you are ready to begin this plan of yours,” she said before turning on her heel and striding out.

“Lavellan, are you certain of this?” Josephine asked after she had left.

Mahanon gave a short laugh. “Certain? No, I don’t think certain is the right word, but our options are limited.”

Cullen nodded. “I’ll see to Skyhold’s defences in the meantime,” he said as they all took their leave, meeting adjourned.

Mahanon hung back, trying to make up his mind about something. No matter what he said or how blasse he played it off, the voices in the Well were affecting him. He realised it when he echoed their words just now in the meeting without any conscious thought. It was nothing bad and he likely would have agreed and spoken the same thing anyway, relaying their words, but it was the part that he had not come to that decision himself that concerned him.

What concerned him even more was he knew very little about the god he was apparently now in service to. If Faerel were alive he would turn to him, the man had loved the stories of the elven gods as much as they had bored Mahanon. He wasn’t even sure he believed they existed - if they did exist why didn’t they show up and help in times of strife? - and now he was apparently in service to one. In the place of Faerel or his keeper, the only person he could think of who would know about them was Solas. He could only hope that Solas’s insatiable desire to speak of elven history would win out over their mutual dislike of each other.

Standing in the doorway to Solas’s rotunda, he watched as the elf painted on the wall with fast, angry strokes. “Solas?” he asked. Solas spun around and glared at Mahanon, fury in his eyes. “Ah… why the hate?”

“I said you should not drink from the Well. Why could you not have listened?” he snapped, the anger clear in his voice. 

“Who else could? You would not and I would not trust such power with-” Mahanon started, but he was cut off.

“You gave yourself to the service of an ancient elven god!”

“I have not become Mythal’s slave!” Mahanon denied; at least it was true for the moment.

“Not yet,” Solas said, seeming to echo Mahanon’s thoughts, “but if you remove the layer of nostalgia from the stories of elven gods, you might see the danger. They were arrogant and fickle. They warred amongst themselves. They had feuds, vendettas. And you are bound to one of them now.”

“Actually that’s what I came here to talk to you about,” Mahanon said, and he was boldened by the pause that caused Solas. “The stories of the gods, I don’t know them, not well. I know the basics, how Elgar’nan banished the sun for being too intense and scorching the earth, how Mythal rose up from the ocean and calmed him, convinced him to allow the sun to return so life could also return. But those are only stories to explain and comfort. I want to know the truth, as much as possible anyway, at least about Mythal. I could write to my Keeper, of course, but that would take time and your knowledge seemed to differ from hers from what I gathered in the temple,” Mahanon said. 

Solas sighed and laid down his paint brush. “What has your Keeper told you? Told you and expected you to remember fully?” he asked.

“Remember fully? Very little. With no magic, I was never destined to replace her. While I was meditating in preparation for receiving my valaslin, however I…” Mahanon trailed off. He had told no one of that memory other than his Keeper and Faerel after it had happened, hadn’t really even thought about it all that much after the pain of the fresh tattoos had passed. He wasn’t sure how comfortable he would be talking about it with Solas, and especially so in such a public place as this rotunda. “Will you walk the battlements with me? I would rather not tell this where so many might overhear,” he eventually said. 

Solas gave a single nod and, together, the pair left the keep and crossed the yard to the battlements. Cullen was training some soldiers and watched them as they walked past. He rose an eyebrow when Mahanon caught his eye, questioning, and Mahanon gave a small nod, reassuring. Yes, it was odd to see him walking alone with the other elf, but things were fine.

Reaching a corner on the battlements, Solas was silent, waiting while Mahanon gathered his thoughts. “Before we receive our vallaslin, we are required to meditate. Usually the Keeper will choose what vallaslin we are marked with based on our personality and values, but a youth can put forward their own wishes. My Keeper wished to mark me with Elgar’nan, for much of my personality mirrored his and she saw in me the potential for leadership. It was an honour that she thought of me as such, but I refused. It had to be Dirthamen, I said.”

“Why Dirthamen?” Solas asked.

Mahanon smiled and leaned against the stone wall, looking out over the mountains. “Keeper Deshana asked the exact same question. Why Dirthamen? You have some of his traits, true, she said, but you are not a follower and you have too much anger. She was certain it should be Elgar’nan. So I told her. While I was meditating before receiving the valaslin, I sat with each of the gods and goddesses. Some called to me more than others, and Elgar’nan was one, yes. But Dirthamen more so. When I thought of Dirthamen it just felt  _ right _ . I knew without a doubt that, like Dirthamen, I would find my own inseparable partner, my Falon’din. And I knew I would have to ‘walk through the fade’ to find him, though I had no idea what that might mean.”

“You believe it was a prophesy?” Solas asked, skepticism in his voice.

Mahanon shrugged. “Or wishful thinking. I was in love with our First at the time, Faerel,” he said. Funny how saying his name didn’t hurt any more. “He had received his valaslin two days before mine and used the complex version for Falon’Din. Our relationship was still secret at that stage, though I suspect the Keeper knew and she doubted what I was saying. But I was willing to not receive my valaslin then if it meant receiving it as anything other than Dirthamen and I believe that convinced her; I was already mocked by most of the clan for my fear of spiders, I would not willingly allow myself to be mocked for being unwilling to even attempt to receive the valaslin. And so I was marked with Dirthamen.” 

Privately, he still believed the validity of what he had felt during that meditation. Before, of course, he had thought his Falon’Din was Faerel. And when he had died Mahanon questioned the whole point of the gods or the tattoos. Part of him even wished he could change his to Elgar’nan as his Keeper had originally wished. But now he was almost a believer again. After all, he had his inseparable partner, his guide through the darkness in Bull. And he had quite literally passed through the Fade at the Conclave which, if that hadn’t happened, he likely would have avoided this shem Inquisition and never met Bull or his Chargers. But Solas didn’t need to know that.

“Honestly,” he continued, “That’s about it. The only thing I really know of Mythal is from how she interacted with those two.”

Solas leaned his back lightly against the wall, hands clasped behind his back as they were want to do when he started lecturing, staring up at Skyhold Keep. “Mythal is the ultimate seeker of justice. As you say, the stories of her being born of the sea and convincing the sun to rise again are just stories. But she was the one many turned to when they sought fair justice. She was often hard and firm with her followers, but never cruel. In that she differed from the others. She acted as a mother to all, even those not truly of her own blood and would defend her own with the same fierceness that a mother shows protecting her young. There is one story of the dalish which has some truth to it. It tells of an argument between Elgar’nan and Falon’Din, but it was much more than that. The two were hated rivals and could never agree on anything, often disagreeing on something just because it was something the other wanted. This carried on for centuries, growing worse and more violent until war threatened to envelop the world. Mythal stepped up then as a negotiator. She listened to both sides and, learning that neither would listen to the other’s point of view, suggested they each put forth a champion for combat. Should neither succeed in killing the other, or they manage to kill each other, then Mythal’s will would be done. Thus she averted a civil war.”

“Who were they? The champions I mean. Who won?” Mahanon asked.

“The names of the champions have been lost to time, but neither won. They both killed each other after battling non-stop for a day and a night. Mythal claimed the victory.” He looked across at Mahanon. “ _ That _ is the kind of god you are now bound to. She is cunning, and will use her followers wherever necessary.”

“She doesn’t sound that bad,” Mahanon said, turning to lean sideways against the wall to look at Solas. “Right now she wants to stop Corypheus, I know that. And after? I’m already expected to carry out justice as the Inquisitor. Having the opinions of the goddess of justice itself can’t be all that bad.”

“You show a lot of mercy in your judgements, sometimes where it is not warranted. Mythal has no such feeling. There is no mercy. She is more akin to what Cole was in his opinions.”

“Cole?” Mahanon asked. The name was familiar but he couldn’t put his finger on where he had heard it.

Solas shook his head. “Nevermind,” he said. “The point is, should Mythal gain control over you while you are passing judgements there will be no more mercy, no more forgiving, no more chances for redemption. Each will get exactly as they deserve, no more no less.”

“I see,” Mahanon said quietly. He supposed he did see too; for the most part he liked to believe that if he could show his enemies a better way they would no longer be enemies. Most of the time it had worked in his favour and the Inquisition had gained a valuable resource. Often the judged was grateful to be shown mercy. But that would stop if Mythal gained control. He sighed heavily and hung his head. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll bring that point up with my advisers so they can be aware of it, keep an eye out for it. Not sure what action they may take, but at least they can know to look for it.” 

Solas gave a single solemn nod. “I suppose it is better you have this power than Corypheus,” he allowed and Mahanon allowed himself a small smile at that. “Tell me, Inquisitor. Once Corypheus is dead, what will you do with the power of the Well?”

Of course, Solas never got a chance to read that letter Mahanon had written for him way back in Haven so had no way of knowing of the curse plaguing Clan Lavellan. “It’s impossible to go back to the way things were,” he said. “The whole mage rebellion proved that. I would use my position to try to improve the lot of all involved, and use the knowledge to help my clan, I guess. So much has been lost. I suppose I would also have to get used to writing, to make a record of what’s now in my head so that future generations can learn what I now know.”

“And what if, by doing so, you wake up to a world that is worse than this one?” Solas asked.

“Then I keep trying,” Mahanon said. “A failure is only a failure if you do not learn from it, that’s what one of my teachers taught me as a child, something I find to be more true than most things I was told as a child.”

“You are right. Thank you,” Solas said.

Mahanon’s eyebrows shot up; Solas was surprising him a lot of late. “For what?” he asked. 

“You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor,” Solas said. “You have… impressed me. I may not always agree with your or enjoy your company, but what you have accomplished is impressive. You have offered hope that if one keeps trying even if the consequences are grave, that some day things will be better.” Mahanon stared at Solas, his mouth open slightly. He was impressive? Since when? Mahanon felt more like a bumbling idiot fumbling through his situation more often than not, certainly not someone worthy of respect from someone like Solas. 

“Forgive my melancholy,” Solas said, ignoring Mahanon’s reaction. “Corypheus has cost us much. The Temple of Mythal did not deserve such a fate. The orb he carries, and its stolen power… that at least we may still recover. With luck, some of the past may yet survive.”

“What doesn’t I will endeavour to use the voices from the Well to record, so at least some does,” Mahanon said.

Solas gave a single nod and said, “If you would do that, I would be thankful.” He took a couple steps away then paused. “When you go to Mythal’s alter, I would come as well.”

Mahanon didn’t bother asking how he knew that was the destination - someone as knowledgeable of the ancient lore had probably figured it out, or overheard it from somewhere - so he gave a nod. An extra mage would only help in any fights, his only reservation being that Solas didn’t know of Mahanon’s illness, his curse. He tried to think through what would happen were he to find out, then gave it up as pointless; he would find out soon enough, they all would. 

Permission granted, Solas took his leave, allowing Mahanon his space to stare out over the battlements. What an… interesting conversation that turned out to be. Despite the fact that he wasn’t overly fond of Solas, he was definitely an interesting person. If he wasn’t always so wrapped up in the past and the Fade maybe things could have been different between them. Never friends, Solas was far too serious for that, but more, perhaps. More than what they were anyway. Hearing footsteps approach, he glanced over his shoulder to see Cassandra approaching. She spared a glance in Solas’s direction as he passed before moving next to Mahanon.

“Is everything okay, Lavellan?” she asked quietly, her face lined with concern.

Mahanon gave a short laugh. Was everything okay? “Creators, no,” he said with a half smile. “But I’ll manage.” Pushing away from the wall, he said, “Get ready to head out in the morning. There’s an altar to Mythal south-west of the Western Approach we need to visit. Be prepared to fight a dragon.” He started to leave, then paused. “Bull will likely be angry or upset afterwards,” he added.

“What are you planning, Mahanon?” Cassandra asked quietly.

Mahanon just shook his head. “Doing my duty as Inquisitor. It just conflicts with what he wants, that’s all,” he said, before heading down the stairs back to the courtyard. He could feel Cassandra’s eyes on his back but he didn’t feel like explaining the whole situation to her so he kept walking. 

*

A week later the five of them arrived where Mahanon said the altar was. There were elven ruins around, but not much was left, a few statues here or there, some pillars, most fallen down, a few patches of cobbled path between the grass and bushes. Not much else. Still, they were in the right place. This was where Morrigan had indicated they would find the altar. On the way he had told the others only that Mythal had offered them a gift, a dragon, should they prove themselves worthy. What that meant, Mahanon could honestly say he didn’t know. He had not told them of the choice he was required to make. He knew what he had to do, in his heart he knew it, but he also knew that he may yet wind up regretting it.

“It’s here,” he said as they approached an archway covered in vines. “I can feel it.”

“Yes,” Solas agreed. “I feel it as well.”

Mahanon glance at Solas - how could he feel it when he didn’t have the voices telling him that it was the right place? - but the other elf was staring at the archway.

“It’s probably nothing but a ruin now,” Cassandra said.

“I’m sure it’s here,” Mahanon said. He didn’t need to say how he knew. “Just keep an eye out.”

Proceeding under the arch and through what was left of some kind of passageway revealed a clearing. Quite the beautiful spot, really, Mahanon thought. Idly he wondered what it might be like to have a picnic here, just him and Bull. Then he pushed such fantasies aside; now was not the time or place, and he couldn’t really imagine Bull sitting down to tea and sandwiches on a blanket. 

Looking around he saw what looked like another statue, near hidden with vines. “There,” Mahanon said, and he jogged towards it. “This is all that’s left of the altar,” he said as he arrived. Looking up he stared at the half-woman half-dragon he was now apparently bound to. Reaching out he moved some of the vines away and brushed off the leaves and moss. His fingertips found writing and, brushing away the lichen growing over it, he read, “We few who travel far, call to me, and I will come. Without mercy, without fear.”

“Cry havok in the moonlight, let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear,” Solas finished. Mahanon turned to stare at him. “A very old invocation, perfectly translated,” he said.

“Time was I wouldn’t have understood those words,” Mahanon said, turning back to the statue and running his fingers over it once more. “I doubt even Keeper Deshana could translate it easily. Strange that there wasn’t an altar like this at Mythal’s temple, though perhaps there is behind a locked door somewhere, or at least something similar. The temple was a place of justice, but this…” The whisperings in his mind grew louder, not with words exactly, but feelings, experiences, meaning without language. “This is where the elves called her,  _ spoke _ to her,” he said, translating what the voices were allowing him to know into words so the others could understand what he did, at least a little. “Then one day she disappeared and they had no one to speak to.”

“Do you need to do this alone?” Cassandra asked and Mahanon smiled at how she was trying to be considerate.

“No, definitely stay,” he said. “There is danger yet and I will need you.” As if Bull would leave him alone even if he wished it, Mahanon thought to himself. Stepping away from the altar he turned back to the clearing. “I’m here, Mythal. Just as your worshipers told me. If I must master a dragon to fight Corypheus, then send it.”

“What?” Bull demanded sharply.

Mahanon ignored him; now was not the time, the dragon was arriving. He could hear its wings beating through the air. The sound was strangely familiar, and not in the threatening way that Corypheus’s dragon sounded. This was familiar as though he had experienced this before, or at least the summons, the changing direction mid flight. Strange. Probably just one of the voices’ memories though.

The ground shook as the dragon landed and immediately attacked, driving any chance for an argument away for now. It was beautiful, horned as Mythal is depicted as being, with great horns sweeping back over its head. There was a keen intelligence behind those eyes, animalistic, at least as intelligent as the best trained horses at Skyhold, or the harts that Mahanon had grown up riding. Perhaps even more intelligent than that.

He got no further in examining the beast before he was forced to dodge a tail swipe that almost connected and would have taken his head off. Gripping his daggers firmly, Mahanon darted in, using what speed he had (diminished greatly from when they had defeated their first dragon) to become an annoyance, to strike in painful positions, attempting to get major arteries but content just to distract the beast. 

A blast from its wings threw him backwards and he hit the ground hard, rolling a couple times before coming to a stop. Climbing to his knees, he gasped in some air, coughed a little, and absently swiped his hand over his mouth, not taking his eyes from the dragon. The dragon, strangely, made no further move to attack them. As Mahanon stood it instead, lowered its head slightly. Submissive perhaps?

Mahanon started to walk towards it but Bull charged. The dragon swung its head towards him, snarling. 

“Stop him!” he snapped to Cassandra. “He means to kill the dragon. We cannot allow it!” 

Both Dorian and Cassandra move in front of Bull. The qunari goes to plow straight through them and Dorian is forced to dodge aside, but Cassandra simply plants her feet, raises her shield before her and blocks him. He manages to push her back several feet, but she holds her position. 

“Shall I freeze his feet?” Solas asked mildly.

Mahanon shook his head; magic unnerved Bull nearly as much as demons did. Eventually he stopped.

They were arguing, Mahanon could hear the voices, but he was focussed entirely on the dragon now that he knew Bull was under control, at least for the moment. Not sensing any more danger from his companions, the dragon’s attention was solely focussed on Mahanon. Taking first one cautious step, then another, he kept going till he was close enough to touch it, though he didn’t dare try that. Hearing footsteps behind him, the dragon’s eyes giving a telltale flick over his shoulder, Mahanon glanced behind him to see the others were approaching, weapons drawn, all but solas who stood off to the side slightly, watching, leaning on his staff. Mahanon held a hand out to them, telling them to wait, then turned back to the dragon. 

The dragon took a deep breath, as though it were to breath lightning at him as it had during the fight and, this close, there was no way Mahanon could move to avoid it. When it let the breath out, however, it was in a roar. There was no lightning in it but it had enough force to blow his hair back and hurt his ears. Mahanon stood still in its wake, not daring to flinch or look away. He could feel a power gathering in him, the voices had become a wordless buzzing, gathering from throughout his body into his mind and then it felt like ice spread over his skin as they burst forth. All was blue light and whisps of the light moved back and forth between dragon and elf, linking them. 

Mahanon gained an awareness of her, a keen intelligence, a sense of self. This was a being as individual as Mahanon was, bound just as he was to the service of Mythal. She, for he knew now that the dragon was female, she was beautiful. She does not wish to be bound but she cannot refuse the will of Mythal.

The lights fade and Mahanon steps back. The dragon turns, takes a couple of steps, then takes flight once more, leaving the puny people to their squabbles.

“Why did it fly off? Will it come back?” Cassandra asked, staring after it.

“She will come when I summon her,” Mahanon said. “Once. That’s enough to fight Corypheus, however. I have my dragon.”

“Yes and what of the cost?” Bull demanded.

Mahanon sighed. As if he wasn’t fully aware of the cost. “Not now, Bull,” he said.

“What cost?” Dorian asked. Always pushing!

“Not. Now,” Mahanon said firmly, aware that Solas was watching them closely, his eyes seeming to bore into Mahanon. “Let’s just… make camp. On the outskirts of the ruins.” He looked to Bull. “We can talk then,” he said and Bull gave a single nod, even though Mahanon could tell he was still angry.

And why shouldn’t he be? Mahanon argued with himself. If their roles had been reversed, if Mahanon were faced to losing Bull because of some wasting illness and he chose not to cure himself of it, wouldn’t Mahanon be angry as well? Of course he would. But this time the whole world was at stake, he couldn’t afford to second guess himself on this.

Dinner was a fairly sombre affair: Mahanon found it hard to focus, the voices in his head speaking incessantly in their own language, and Bull was staring intently at him the whole time. Solas kept to himself and, once he had finished eating, retreated to his own tent  Dorian and Cassandra exchanged idle talk, but both of them were distracted as well, their eyes flicking between Mahanon and Bull. 

Mahanon was tired, exhausted even. His whole body ached as though he had been through a hard workout after a month of doing nothing and his chest burned near constantly now. “I’m going to bed,” he announced eventually, cutting into the conversation Dorian and Cassandra were having. “Thank you for dinner, Cassandra,” he said before turning and entering his own tent.

Inside, he pulled his jacket and shirt off to change and noticed the bones of his hips sticking out, including the fresh pink scar standing out vividly. Pausing he took the time to actually look over himself. He had lost weight, a lot of it. No wonder he was tired. He wondered how many other people had noticed. He was sure Varric had even if the dwarf was wise enough not to mention it to him. And now, of course, Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine had all witnessed for themselves what was happening. He sighed and pulled a nightshirt over his head just as Bull ducked into the tent; this was getting out of hand. He needed to deal with Corypheus as soon as possible. Even if he found another cure before he died he wondered if the damage that had already been done was irreversible.

Bull didn’t do or say anything as Mahanon got ready for bed, merely stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching and waiting. Eventually, when it became clear that Mahanon was all too willing to go to bed without saying anything, indeed had already lit his incense burner and sat down on the cot, did Bull speak.

“Why?”

That was all Bull said, that one word, but it conveyed so much pain and heartache that Mahanon could physically feel it in his own chest. Mahanon sighed softly. He had known this talk would come, known it from the moment he had made up his mind with what he had to do. But that didn’t mean discussing it now was any easier. 

“Because it was the right thing to do. Because it gives us a better chance to defeat Corypheus. Because it is better to sacrifice the few to save the many. Because there’s no guarantee that even once the curse is gone, the damage it’s caused can even be healed.” Mahanon sighed again and ran his hand through his hair, leaning forward over the incense burner as he felt the burning trembling in his chest.  “We have to-” he started but then the coughing began again. Creators, it was really starting to hurt now. It was hard to breathe and… he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe!

*

Bull watched with some alarm as Mahanon coughed and struggled to catch his breath. He had been like this the last time too, but as soon as Mahanon turned wide fearful eyes to Bull he knew this was something else. 

“Dorian!” he shouted as he grabbed the incense burner and brought it closer, pulling a blanket up over him to try to trap the smokey air as he had done last time. As Dorian ducked inside Bull caught a glimpse of Cassandra blocking the way for Solas and was grateful she had thought of doing so.

Mahanon was laying on his side now, unable to stay upright, the coughing softer, weaker, but no less incessant. Dorian folded the blanket back, saying, “I need to see his face.” His hands began to glow with healing magic and he sent it into Mahanon. Seeing the way his jaw clenched, Bull knew that whatever he sensed wasn’t good news. 

“Hand me a cloth or something,” Dorian said, holding out a hand but not looking away from where Mahanon was struggling to get breath in, his skin grey, lips starting to go blue. “I’m going to force the blood flooding his lungs out so he can take a proper breath.” Resting a hand on Mahanon’s shoulder, he said to the elf, “This will hurt,” but Mahanon didn’t seem to hear him, his eyes glazed. 

Bull dug around in a pack and finally came up with a shirt and tossed it over. Dorian held it out then rose an eyebrow. “Silk, truly? He’ll be coughing blood, it will stain, I couldn’t-”

“Just use it,” Bull growled.

Dorian sighed dramatically, but obediently tucked the shirt under Mahanon’s head and held it over his mouth. Bull could sense when Dorian gathered his magic and, even though he couldn’t actually see what was happening, he could see the results clear enough. Mahanon’s eyes widened and he curled in on himself as though he had just been punched. Blood bloomed across the white shirt, though Bull couldn’t tell if it was brought up from a cough or from vomitting it. Three more times Dorian did this, though the last two, Mahanon seemed to be unconscious; his eyes were closed and other than his reactions to whatever Dorian was doing, he laid still. He was still breathing, though, Bull was relieved to see. 

“So what was this cost that you were talking about before?” Dorain asked quietly. His hands were still glowing, the light of it illuminating their tent, but Bull didn’t know what he was doing now that the coughing had stopped.

Bull growled to himself and took the camp stool, sitting on it even though it was too small for him; if he sat on it normally, his knees would be up by his shoulders so instead he crossed his legs in front of him. It was better than pacing which was what he wanted to do. If he paced his horns would catch on the roof of the tent, and there was nothing here for him to hit so that avenue was out as well. 

“The dragon he tamed? If he killed it he could have used it as a cure. Those voices he hears told him he had to choose what was more important,” Bull said. It made him angry all over again.

Dorian blinked at that then looked down at Mahanon, a sad smile on his face. “And he chose to use it against Corypheus. That’s was very… brave.”

“Brave? It was fucking stupid! Four of us took down a dragon, the whole Inquisition would be able to take down Corypheus’s beast.”

Dorian shook his head slowly. “In a fair fight, maybe. But do you truly think Corypheus will fight fair? You’re too close to the situation to see it, too close to Lavellan. To do what he knows is right even when it will cost him his life, the lives of all who remain of his clan, and, perhaps worst of all for him, your hurt and anger? No, Bull, that’s not stupid. That’s brave.” Dorian stood and used what there was of the shirt that was unstained to wipe at the blood coating Mahanon’s lips then, with another dramatic sigh, set it alight, allowing it to burn to ash.

“He should sleep the night soundly enough and right now, I need a drink. Call if you need me,” Dorian said and he left Bull staring at the sleeping elf. One thing was certain: he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately life has thrown some curve balls at me that has stripped my creativity for the lasts few months. I am slowly coming back on track and the next chapter is being written bit by bit and is forthcoming. Just wanted to reassure people that this story hasn't been abandoned and will be finished before I start anything else, hopefully in time for NaNo, but if not it will be soon after.


	32. World's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle against Corypheus, but is it too much for Lavellan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I am so so sorry for the long absence. Real life and health issues got in the way of writing. I have been working on this chapter, chipping away at it for a few months now and it's finally finished! I just want to reassure any readers who are still with me that this story is NOT dead and I WILL be finishing it.

Cullen looked up from the paperwork on his desk at the knock on the door. “Come in,” he called, absently, distracted, not bothering to look up from the field report he was currently reviewing. 

 

“Am I disturbing you?”

 

That caused Cullen to look up in surprise. The Iron Bull had ducked through his door and was standing leaning against the door frame, massive arms folded across his chest, a slight smile playing about his lips at having surprised the commander.

 

“No, not at all,” Cullen said, then glanced down at the report in his hand. “Well, not from anything that can’t be picked up again later,” he amended. 

 

Bull, for his part, had pushed away from the door frame and began looking around Cullen’s room. This was the first time the qunari had been in here that Cullen knew of and he seemed curious, at least with regards to the book case. When he walked over to the ladder and looked up, Cullen braced himself for what he knew was coming.

 

“You know, I could get my boys to fix that hole in your roof in a day or two. I’m surprised it’s not a higher priority in the reconstruction,” Bull said.

 

There it was. “I kind of like it actually,” Cullen said.

 

“But you get snowed on,” Bull pointed out.

 

Cullen smirked. “Only when I forget to put the cloth up I use to cover it in bad weather.” Not really in the mood to talk about his choice of decorating and knowing that Bull, former qunari spy, hardly waited for permission before snooping, Cullen said, “What can I do for you, Bull?”

 

“Oh, many many things,” Bull replied.

 

Cullen rose an eyebrow, waiting. The silence dragged out and a wicked grin spread over Bull’s face. Then it clicked. “Oh. Oh! Ah, um, I don’t think… What I mean is…” He trailed off when Bull started laughing at him. “Maker preserve me,” Cullen muttered, running a hand through his hair and wishing he could banish the bright red flush that came to his face. 

 

“Relax,” Bull said. “Pipsqueek that he is, Lavellan would beat me senseless if I hooked up with you. He’s scary when he’s angry.”

 

Cullen smirked. “I don’t doubt it,” he said. He remembered seeing the way the elf seemed to flow about the battlefield at Adamant, striking quickly and efficiently almost too fast to follow. And that was only doing what was necessary, no true anger there. He didn’t doubt that if Lavellan got truly angry there would be no hesitation and no mercy. “So what is the real reason you’re here? I doubt it was just to mock my roof or make me blush so terribly.”

 

“You did turn a pretty shade of pink,” Bull teased, triggering said shade to threaten to appear again. “But you’re right, I did come here for a specific reason. There’s a healer stationed at Griffon Wing Keep. Elven woman, never actually caught her name, but she was the one who healed Mahanon’s hip and arm when he broke them. I’d like you to recall her back here.”

 

Cullen frowned; he didn’t know the woman but it would not be difficult to find out who she was. Recalling her would be a little more complicated, however, and he knew that Bull knew that. He also knew that he wouldn’t be asking for anything that could be fixed by a healer here.

 

“This is regarding Lavellan’s… condition, isn’t it?” he asked quietly. Bull gave a single nod. Cullen suspected that it was worsening from what he saw in the Arbor Wilds; Lavellan had come back two days ago but been confined to his room, resting. The official word was that he had been injured in his latest mission but Leliana had confided in him that that was not the case as no healers or surgeons had been consulted. Privately, Cullen had guessed the real reason, but he pretended not to be concerned lest that worry caused others to pay attention. 

 

“I understand that Dorian isn’t the most skilled healer, but wouldn’t it be better to ask one of the other mages or healers here? Madame Vivienne would hold her tongue, if only for the sake of the Inquisition’s image, and Solas seems skilled with such things,” Cullen pointed out. “Even one of the healers in the infirmary could help.”

 

“I’ve tried convincing him of that but he’ll have none of it. Truth be told, he won’t be happy that I’ve done this, but something needs to be done. The two of them seemed to hit it off last time while I know he doesn’t like either Vivienne or Solas. If I can convince him to allow anyone to heal him it will be her.”

 

“Do you think she could do it? I mean if not even his clan’s healer could do anything…”

 

“Remove it completely? Na, doubt it. Would be great if she could though. But Dorian says parts of his lungs are shredded. If she can repair that damage even a bit it will be a start,” Bull said and Cullen knew that, while his tone didn’t give anything away, the whole situation had to be weighing on the qunari. Bull took the welfare of his Chargers very seriously, unusually so for a mercenary group, and Cullen knew that, even though technically Lavellan was the one who hired them, he was also considered a member of that honourary group. And that was disregarding the two’s relationship.

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Cullen promised.

 

With a nod and a, “Thanks,” Bull took his leave and Cullen started rifling through the lists of Inquisition forces stationed at Griffon Wing Keep.

 

*

“Was the summoning successful, Inquisitor?”

 

Mahanon blinked and sat up. He had pulled a chair up to the war table and had only meant to rest his head on his arms for a few minutes while he waited for the others to arrive, fully intending to push the seat to the side once more when he heard the first to arrive. Instead, when he rose his head he found his advisors sans Morrigan had already gathered and were watching him. It was Leliana who had spoken and woke him.

 

Mahanon smiled wearily and stood. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he teased as he moved the chair off to the side as he had intended to do all along.

 

“But you found what you needed?” she pressed

 

Depends on who you asked, Mahanon thought to himself. Aloud, he said, “I did. Mythal sent a dragon and I bound her to my service. She will help with the fight against Corypheus.”

 

“Then all that remains is to find Corypheus before he comes to us,” Cullen said.

 

“We’ve been looking for his base since all this began with no success,” Leliana said.

 

“His dragon must come and go from somewhere,” Cullen said.

 

Mahanon stared absently at the war table, letting the conversation wash over him. He located where they were on the map and his eyes wandered outwards, to each of the towns and cities where Inquisition forces had spread. Each point was marked with a small marker, the Chantry’s eye that had become the Inquisition’s banner on each. They covered most of the map now. He had traveled from east to west, from the Hissing Wastes to the Forgotten Swamps, further than anyone in his clan had traveled in all their wanderings probably for generations. And now, with the end looming, he should feel homesick, he should want to return to his clan and, in some ways, he did. But the clan he longed to return to no longer existed, they were but a shadow of their former selves. He did not wish to return only to witness his clan’s extinction. Besides, Skyhold was now feeling more like home than an aravel next to a camp fire, though he felt almost a traitor to admit that even only to himself.

 

“What about the deep roads?” Josephine was saying. “We could send word to Orzamar, hire envoys to-”

 

Mahanon blinks when the map he’s staring at turns green, then winces as his hand unexpectedly flared to life. Mahanon holds his hand up, staring at it; the last time it activated like this of its own accord was…

 

He looked outside. The breach was open again. “Corypheus,” he said lowly, anger in his voice.

 

“He did that? But why?” Leliana demanded, shocked.

 

“He knows he can’t attack Skyhold and win. He wants to draw me out. Either I close the breach again, or it swallows the world,” Mahanon said, guessing but knowing it was a good guess.

 

“But that’s madness!” Josephine protested. “Wouldn’t that kill him as well?”

 

“Inquisitor,” Cullen cut in before Mahanon could answer. “We have no forces to send with you, they are still in the Arbor Wilds combing over the ruins and mopping up the last of the red templars.”

 

“Just as Corypheus planned it, I suppose,” Mahanon said. “We cannot wait. Recall those in the field and gather those here. Leave only a skeleton crew to defend Skyhold and the non-combatants, the keep should do most of the defending needed. We leave immediately.”

 

*

 

It started at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and now it would end at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A poet could make something of that and the circular nature of all things. But there were no poets there now, only soldiers loyal to the Inquisition. One such soldier gripped his sword tightly in a slightly trembling hand as he stood beside his brothers in arms before the demon that was Corypheus. 

 

“Tell me,” the demon was saying. “Where is your maker now? Call him. Call down his wrath upon me!” Corypheus taunted, his voice seeming to reverberate through the soldier as though it were a physical thing. It was easy to see how people were fooled into believing he was a god. The soldier himself may have been tempted to believe such a thing also, had he not seen the Inquisitor perform the feats he had. If anyone was to be a god it was Inquisitor Lavellan and no one else.

 

“You cannot for he does not exist,” the demon was continuing. “I am Corypheus. I shall deliver you from this lie in which you linger. Bow before your new god and be spared.”

 

“Never!” the soldier shouted furiously.

 

Corypheus swung around to glare at him and the soldier felt the blood drain from his face beneath that penetrating stare. “As you wish,” was all he said.

 

The soldier started to charge towards the demon but was blasted backwards by an explosion of some kind. He cried out as he was blasted back against a crumbling stone wall, his back erupting in pain as he fell to the ground. His legs, he couldn’t move his legs! And there was so much blood. 

 

Gasping in air, his vision growing dark, the soldier looked up from where he lay as Corypheus spoke again. 

 

“I knew you would come.”

 

And then a familiar voice. “It ends here, Corypheus.” The Inquisitor! He had come. Through the haze of pain, the soldier saw the elven warrior striding towards the demon, a dagger in each hand and his green hand glowing ominously. He was flanked by his closest companions and the qunari who was his lover. Such an inspiring sight!

 

“And so it shall,” Corypheus said, and the two forces collided as the soldier closed his eyes and exhaled his last breath.

 

*

 

Bull climbed to his feet, his face bathed in the eerie green glow of the combined light of the breach above them and the ferocious sparking from the Inquisitor’s hand. The very hand which was currently held out towards the kneeling demon shit better known as Corypheus.

 

“You love the Fade so much?” Mahanon was saying, his narrow chest heaving as he fought for breath. “Let me help you reach it,” he snapped as, with a final forceful thrust, he did his finger wagging magic trick and sent Corypheus back into the Fade and closing the breach at the same time. Bull wasn’t exactly sure that was a good idea - Corypheus had survived being physically in the Fade before and it had only made him stronger - but at least he was dealt with for now. If he managed to find a way back this time they would deal with it then.

 

As the being that was Corypheus was blasted away, Bull took a moment to glance around them. That fight had been… rough. Dorian was somewhere over to their left, knocked unconscious by a chunk of ruin sent flying his way. He was probably all right; at least he hoped he would be all right. Sera was supposed to be with him, though Bull was sure he had seen arrows flying during the fight.

 

Bull was distracted from his search for their friends when the rock beneath their feet began to rumble. They had been moving slowly but surely towards the breach, separated from the rest of the Inquisition forces by some ridiculous show of magic Corypheus used, willing to sacrifice the entire world just to get to the Inquisitor.

 

An Inquisitor who was just standing staring blankly as the slab of rock they were standing on began to fall back to the earth, other smaller rocks smashing into the ‘ground’ around them. Bull was up and moving, using the growing shadows to guide when to move aside.

 

“Mahanon, move!” he shouted as one such shadow darkened the Inquisitor’s pale complexion. Slowly it seemed, he rose his head to look at Bull, as though waking from a dream, but he didn’t move. Bull had time to notice the blood staining his lips before he plowed into him, bodily knocking him aside, one hand wrapping around his chest to stop him from falling. Pushing him to the ground, wedged between it and a slightly more upright boulder, he then covered his body with his own to protect him from anything that fell towards them. Over the roar of the wind, the crashing of stone against stone, and the pain of the pressure building once more in his ears Bull couldn’t hear anything Mahanon may have said or how he was breathing but this close he could feel his chest heaving as he fought for breath. 

 

Bull grunted as a particularly large rock bounced off his shoulder - that was going to leave a mark - but better him than Mahanon, especially in his current state. All they could do was wait it out, wait and hope.

 

*

 

Krem was pacing back and forth, bloodied sword bared and battered shield resting somewhat uncomfortably on his left arm. The demons had been dispatched for now, but the Inquisitor and the chief, along with a few other Inquisition soldiers, had been caught amongst the chunks of earth that just started rising up into the sky. Straight up towards the new Breach.

 

“Lieutenant!” 

 

Krem turned towards Skinner and Dalish as they approached him. His dark eyes swept over them, taking in the dark rings beneath Dalish’s eyes, the way Skinner cradled her left arm to her chest protectively. None of them were going to get out of this easy but injuries could be healed (mostly) and so far none of the Chargers had been killed. He glanced once more towards the green sky. Well, none that he knew of.

 

“The left flank is clear,” Skinner reported brusquely.

 

“Losses?” That came from Cullen as he strode towards him, lion helmet on his head, his own sword just as bloody as the rest of theirs. 

 

Skinner glanced to Krem who gave a short nod, then said, “Some twenty-odd Inquisition soldiers. Two mages. No Chargers.” 

 

A thud was all that announced Dalish reaching the end of her strength as she collapsed. Krem shoved his sword into the scabbard as he jogged over and knelt down beside her to check on her. Such carelessness would earn him a scolding and a night of pulling his scabbard apart to clean it properly piece by piece but right then he didn’t care. 

 

It began with a soft pitter-patter, like rain falling on a tin roof. Rain that became harder, hail. Except instead of ice falling from the sky it was dirt and dust and stones, then rocks. The ground began to tremble the same way it had when Corypheus had lifted the very earth into the sky only this time it was the earth falling back down to where it belonged. It felt as though time had slowed as Krem turned his face to the green sky to stare at the world coming crashing down around them.

 

“Move! Move!” Cullen’s shout brought him back to the present and then he couldn’t move himself fast enough. Skinner scooped Dalish up and was carrying her as Krem lurched to his feet and followed at a jog. Rocky was ahead of them but his shorter legs meant he was being overtaken by the soldiers streaming past them. A shadow darkened him and Krem didn’t even need to look to see that it was a particularly large chunk of rock that was hurtling towards them. With a surge of speed, Krem charged, barrelling into Rocky and sending them both flying forwards and out of the path of the falling boulders. Screams were now accompanying the roaring crash of as Inquisition forces were crushed and injured and all Krem could do was raise his arms over his head and wait.

 

Eventually there was silence. Well, not silence, there were still screams and shouts for help, friends calling out to one another, officers barking orders. But the roar and crash of the earth falling down had ended. Slowly, Krem rose his head, coughed, and looked around. There was dust everywhere making it impossible to see more than a few meters in front of him. The mountain breeze was clearing it though and, as he climbed to his feet, he saw what looked like a horned shadow walking through the dust.

 

A smile spread over his face as the dust cleared even more and he was able to make out the Chief, bruised and battered, but alive and holding the Inquisitor in his arms. Seeing Mahanon’s eyes closed caused some of Krem’s elation to abate somewhat, but then the elf lifted and arm and rested it across his chest. He was alive, they both were! And then Krem was hurrying forward to meet them, heedless of the tears that left tracks down his face.

 

*

 

The world was a swirl of noise and colours and pain and Mahanon was riding it as best he could. The one constant he was sure of was Bull’s presence never leaving his side, but Mahanon could not get the breath to speak to him, to reassure or comfort him. He could barely get the breath to stay conscious.

 

Focus. He had to focus on what he could, trust that his body knew how to keep him alive and focus on what was going on around him to centre him, root him in the living. He could feel Bull’s hand cradling his own, one hand under it, one over it, enveloping it. That meant he wasn’t being carried anymore. No, he was laying down on his side, that was why he wasn’t choking even though the metalic taste of blood filled his mouth. Where? Voices. Shouts. Screams. Soft reassuring tones. Healer’s tent, had to be.

 

“His left lung is completely collapsed.”

 

That wasn’t a soft reassuring voice, it was sharp, almost angry, but familiar. Listen, Mahanon, he told himself. Listen to what she says. 

 

“Right is lucky if it can get to fifty percent capacity and currently it is significantly lower.”

 

“But what can be done?” That voice was Cassandra, Mahanon would recognise her sharp voice anywhere and, though she was trying to be quiet, her voice was trained to carry and demand attention.

 

“Right now you can be quiet and let me work.” Mahanon smiled then, no doubt a grisly sight with his blood stained teeth. He finally recognised that voice as the elven woman who had healed him in the past. 

 

“So, still in the land of the living, are you?” she asked, no doubt seeing his reaction. Mahanon gave a single nod, not having the breath to verbally answer her. She didn’t seem to mind though as she said, “Good. Now, breathe in for me, deep as you can, and hold it for as long as you can.”

 

Mahanon did so, holding his breath until dark spots danced in front of his eyes. He felt her magic reach into him, similar to how Dorian’s had felt but softer, gentler, less invasive. He couldn’t hold his breath for long though, a young child could have done better, and when the air gushed out of him it triggered another coughing fit. It was weak as he could not get the air in to make it strong, but long for the same reason. He could hear arguing and angry voices above his head and then he could hear nothing at all.

 

*

 

The next time Mahanon woke he was curled on his side in the familiar comfortable surrounds of his room in Skyhold. The sky through the window he was facing was grey and angry but, thankfully, without any hint of the eerie green of the breach. They had done it. The breach was closed permanently and Corypheus was defeated. But at what cost? All the muscles in his body ached as though he were fresh from the training fields, his hair was damp from sweat and stuck to the back of his neck and forehead, fever probably, and his throat was raw as though he had been screaming constantly. Or coughing as the case was. And… his hand was bandaged? 

 

Mahanon moved his hand to be in front of him to see. Yes, bandaged and, though the mark wasn’t active at the moment, he could feel it was still there, that it hadn’t been affected by what had occurred. The mark was so much a part of him now that he was aware of its presence in the same way he was aware that each hand had five fingers.

 

“We decided that the mark acting up would be a believable lie for your absence. Though most know it is not the whole story.”

 

Mahanon looked towards Leliana’s voice to find her sitting at his desk, her hood lowered for once. Her hair was very pretty, he thought, all different shades of red seemingly glowing from the inside, lit by the fireplace beside her. He had seen her head bared before of course, she wore no hood to Celene’s ball, but that was different somehow; they had all been putting on a show then, presenting a front, an act. In here it was different, private, and there was no one to put on a show for. 

 

“You should wear your hair out more often,” Mahanon said, or perhaps croaked would be a more accurate word, his throat screaming with every word, his voice soft and hoarse. 

 

Leliana heard though and self-consciously rose a hand to touch her hair, a slight bit of pink colouring her cheeks. “I think not,” was all she said as she stood and, moving to wear a platter was resting on his dresser, poured a glass and helped Mahanon drink it. The luke-warm water made him cough a little at first, but Leliana was patient, waiting until it had passed before helping him drink more. 

 

“Where’s Bull?” Mahanon asked when he had drank enough. 

 

“He’ll be passed out drunk if his Chargers have anything to say about it. He wasn’t leaving your side, even to eat or sleep. You were muttering about dragons while you were unconscious and he kept saying it might be important. So Krem and the others dragged him, quite literally, to the tavern. That was six hours ago now.”

 

Mahanon smirked at that image, though it faded as his mind caught up with what she had said. “Wait, dragons?” he asked, then with a blink, it all came back to him.

 

Mythal had been pleased, she wanted to keep her servant alive since he was being so useful to her. And dragons were the key. He had made his choice with her gift to him, to use the dragon against Corypheus, a decision he did not regret even if it was handing himself and the rest of his clan a death sentence. The lesser evil, that’s what he had told himself. Somehow, he thought, he had known that had pleased Mythal. So although he had lost the opportunity to use Mythal’s dragon in his cure there was another way. An ancient way.

 

“Solas,” Mahanon said, pushing himself into a sitting position. The world spun about him a little but he ignored it, forcing it away. “I need to speak to Solas.”

 

“He is… missing, Inquisitor,” Leliana said carefully. 

 

“Missing?”

 

“Varric spoke to him after the battle. After the dust cleared he was seen clutching the broken orb Corypheus used to open the breach.”

 

“Yes…” Mahanon said slowly, remembering. “He asked me to save it if it were possible, back before we reached Skyhold. In truth saving the orb never really occurred to me in the heat of the moment.”

 

“Understandable,” Leliana said. “What was it you needed him for? Perhaps I could help you?”

 

Mahanon hesitated, unsure. He had kept so many secrets for so long he felt uncomfortable speaking of them now. Of course, of anyone to have already discovered them on their own it would either be Bull or Leliana. 

 

“You remember when I said Mythal sometimes grants me visions?” he eventually said. Leliana gave a silent nod. “Well it seems she’s not ready for me to die just yet. She showed me a… vision of sorts, while I was unconscious, though I only really remember the feeling of it and its general message now, nothing specific. A way to cure this curse or disease or whatever it is.” Mahanon watched Leliana’s eyes grow wide as he spoke; for a consummate actor and a woman at ease with hiding her emotions and reactions, here with just the two of them, relaxed, she was very open. 

 

“Dragon blood is the key,” Mahanon said. “I could have used the one I tamed instead of turning it against Corypheus and if I had I would only need the one, but defeating Corypheus was more important. Now, I need…” he trailed off, searching his memories and feelings of what he knew, listening to the voices in his head. “Four,” he said eventually. “The blood of four dragons. With it a ritual can be used that will dissolve the blackness in my chest.”

 

“A ritual,” Leliana repeated. “Blood magic?”

 

Mahanon gave a one shouldered shrug. “I guess. Does it matter?”

 

Leliana pursed her lips. “No one will like it.”

 

“No one need know.” Mahanon then smirked. “Bull will. For the chance to fight dragons at least.”

 

Leliana chuckled a little at that. “Yes, I suppose he will.”

 

Mahanon swung his legs over the side, not even pausing as Leliana suddenly said, “Wait, what are you doing?”

 

“Getting ready to leave,” Mahanon said, his tone such that he thought it was obvious. 

 

“Ah, I don’t think that’s-” was as far as Leliana got before she cut herself off and darted forward, slipping her hands beneath Mahanon’s arms as the world spun around him. He hadn’t even really been aware that he was falling, only that the ground was getting closer.

 

“What do you think the two of you are doing?”

 

The sharp voice from the stairs to Mahanon’s room made them both start guiltily. Looking over his shoulder, trying to pretend he didn’t need to cough, he saw the healer who had been tending to him.

 

“I need to go,” Mahanon tried again, standing on his own feet this time but still allowing Leliana to take his weight a little, not that he would ever admit such a thing. 

 

“You need to go to bed, you mean?” the woman said, striding over. “That  _ is _ what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”

 

“I-” Mahanon started, but cut himself off when Leliana nudged him with her elbow. He sighed, coughed, then glared at the healer. “Yes. That’s what I was going to say.” He allowed the two women to put him back into bed, propped up by his pillows and tucked warmly in. He tried to tell Leliana to get Bull with his eyes but, either his looks only worked on the big Qunari himself, or Leliana was deliberately feigning ignorance. Mahanon suspected the later. He sighed again, tilted his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. The healer was using her magic on him again and it was making his head feel heavy and sleepy. He would rest, he decided, and give Bull a chance to sleep off his own drinking, and then tell him what the voices had told him. It had waited this long, it could wait another day no matter how impatient he was.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for anyone who didn't give up on this story and hopefully I can continue to entertain you right up until the end of it.


	33. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for the cure begins in earnest.

“I don’t understand what could have made it so bad so suddenly though,” Dorian was saying. “It was a hard fight, definitely, and long. But even so he’s never been out of it for days like this.”

 

“You said you were fighting high in the air?” the elven healer Elewyn, asked. Dorian gave a single nod. “Then it was likely the altitude. Exertion would be hard enough in his state, but at a high altitude and in the cold it would be much worse.”

 

Dorian was nodding in understanding but Cassandra just frowned. “I don’t follow,” she said. 

 

Elewyn was halted from answering further when the Inquisitor started to cough again in his sleep. While Bull gently wiped his lips Elewyn’s hands lit with the soothing blue light of her magic as she eased Mahanon’s pain, dissipating the blood in his lungs somehow. Only when she was done and Mahanon sleeping soundly once more did she continue.

 

“You were with the Inquisition when they fled Haven, yes? Did you notice how, the higher into the mountains you climbed the harder it was to get enough air? Fit as you are it likely wouldn’t have affected you too much, but others injured or unused to exertion would have struggled, yes?” Cassandra nodded, remembering. “Now imagine dealing with that, with air even thinner depending on how high you all were, and with lungs that struggle to get enough air in at the best of times.”

 

They were all silent after that, contemplating the implications. 

 

“But what can be done?” Dorian asked.

 

“Dragons.” Mahanon’s voice was little more than a strained whisper. His eyes were still closed so at first Bull thought he must have been talking in his sleep again. He had been doing that a lot lately and often about dragons, though why Bull could not say. Their battle with Corypheus and his dragon was done (though Mahanon had missed the party that had been thrown in his honour) and the dragon that Mahanon had tamed was either dead or gone. But then Mahanon opened his eyes and they locked unerringly onto Bull. “Mythal’s voices. They showed me… a cure I think. Or at least a way to help. Dragons. Their blood. Need to get ready,” he said, his voice growing in strength. 

 

“Woah, slow down there,” Bull said, resting a hand against Mahanon’s shoulder to easily hold him in place. “What do you mean you need dragon blood? How will that help you?”

 

Mahanon told them what he had seen, pausing often to catch his breath, finishing with, “I haven’t heard from my keeper for so long I don’t even know if she’s even alive any more, if any of them are. But if this works we have to get it to them as soon as possible.”

 

Cassandra pushed away from the wall she was leaning against and said, “We’ll see to it. You rest.” She glanced to Elewyn and as her hands glowed, the Inqisitor fell into sleep once more.

 

*

 

Mahanon lounged in the sette that had been dragged to rest in front of the fireplace, frustrated and waiting. He hated that once again others were going off in his place, and on an even more personal mission than before. At least last time it had been for the Inquisition’s business but this time it was entirely for himself and he had been ordered - ordered! - to remain closeted in his room ‘resting’. As though he could rest now, worrying about his friends as they hunted down dragons for him. 

 

Well, he wasn’t going to stand for it! He was the Inquisitor, damn it, he did not obey the orders of his subordinates. Not that he really saw them that way but that was besides the point, it suited his purposes for now. As soon as they had left he had packed clothes as well as his standard travel supplies that were always handily kept in the tower below his room. The others left first thing this morning. They had planned to first hunt down the dragon in Crestwood, and from there move on to Emprise du Lion where it was rumoured there were three dragons harassing the citizens. 

 

Mahanon, meanwhile, had made plans of his own and now, an hour or two after midnight, he made his own move. He had found some rope in the storage under his room and, after changing into the uniform of an Inquisition scout, fastened the rope to the balcony and dropped it over. There would be no way to retrieve it so he would have to leave it behind. It was unfortunate, it would make it obvious come morning what he had done, but it could not be helped; he had never managed to persuade Josephine to have the builders make another exit to his room that wasn’t through the great hall and no matter what clothes he wore, anyone coming out of the Inquisitor’s door would be suspicious. 

 

Yanking on the rope, ensuring that the knot would hold (even if there was snow on the ground it was still a  _ long _ way down!), Mahanon swung himself over the edge of the balcony. 

 

And nearly plunged to his death right there as his arms threatened to give out on him. Gritting his teeth, Mahanon tightened his grip on the rope to halt the drop, thankful that the gloves he wore were good enough quality to protect his hands. Once he had come to a stop, he flicked the rope around his ankle for a bit more of a grip and steadily made his way down.

 

Reaching the bottom of his rope, Mahanon let go and dropped into the snow that had gathered against the wall at the base of his tower. Arms trembling, starting to cough, he had to pause to catch his breath. The healer, Elewyn, had been doing her best to heal the damage to his lungs and to keep them clear so, despite the burn, it didn’t take as long as it normally did for his coughing to subside and he was able to trek his way over to the stables. While Mahanon would have preferred to travel on foot he knew he would never get far enough away overnight before someone came looking for him. This way, he could get as much distance between himself and Skyhold overnight, then ditch the horse probably at Master Dennet’s where he knew it would be looked after, and go to ground. He knew that only the Inquisition’s best trackers would be able to find him once he was on foot and he hoped that Leliana’s wish to keep his health a secret would prevent a full scale search. Head down, hood pulled up, and hands tucked under his arms, he was just another courier making an early start of it and he encountered no resistance in leading a horse from the stables. He was finally free!

 

*

 

Cullen paced back and forth in the war room as he fought the urge to immediately mount back up and get out there again. He had returned from the battlefield where he had been seeing to the last of their movement out and headed straight up to the Inquisitor’s quarters. Mahanon had been in such a bad way after the defeat of Corypheus that he had been afraid he would not live long enough to celebrate their victory and the messages he received from Skyhold had not reassured him. The latest correspondence had told him that a possible cure had been found and that Bull, Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian had set out to obtain it. Mahanon had been ordered to remain in bed under the care of his personal healer and he wasn’t happy about it.

 

Cullen had decided to visit him, perhaps cheer him somewhat or at least find out the details of this cure. Instead, climbing the stairs to his quarters he had found the bed empty. A quick search also turned up no sign of the Inquisitor in his bathroom, on the mezzanine level, or on the balconies. And so he had done the only thing he could have: called a war council despite there no longer being a war. His personal healer, Elewyn, was with them as well.

 

“What do you propose? We can’t exactly lock him up?” Josephine said wearily, her eyes following Cullen back and forth.

 

“That may not be such a bad idea,” he said. 

 

“No, Cullen,” was all Josephine said in reply; she knew he didn’t really mean it as much as the thought was appealing at the moment. 

 

“Then at least let me gather a force and go look for him. If word were to get out that the Inquisitor has vanished -”

 

“Exactly,” Josephine cut in. “In this instance at least, I believe we should continue to honour the Inquisitor’s wishes and keep his private business private.”

 

“But what if it’s a result of foul play? Lavellan has made plenty of enemies who would wish him harm.”

 

“If something like that had happened there would have been some sign even if it were possible to get past the guards. We have received no ransom note, there was no sign of any fighting in his room. Right now we don’t know where he is or why he’s gone.”

 

“Currently he’s in the Hinterlands just outside of the Crossroads, as of about three hours ago,” Leliana said.

 

“As to the why, he was unwilling to let others face the dangers of dragon hunting without him and knew a fuss would be made he tried to leave openly,” Elewyn said.

 

The two women glanced at each other, shared a conspiratorial smile, then turned back to the gobsmacked expressions both Cullen and Josephine wore. Cullen was the first to recover with a stuttered, “Wha- how do you know that? Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“Because then I wouldn’t get to see your perfect expressions,” Leliana teased in a sing-song voice. Elewyn simply laughed. 

 

“Lel,” Josephine complained.

 

“One of my little birds saw him leaving and found a rope tied to the balcony. I’ve had him watched discreetly since then with orders not to interfere unless the Inquisitor’s life is in danger and if blowing their cover will somehow save it. He is heading towards Emprise du Lion to catch up with the others there.”

 

“Will he survive such a journey on foot and alone?” Josephine asked quietly.

 

“So long as he avoids trouble he should be fine for a while,” Elewyn said. The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement when Cullen gave a disbelieving snort; they all were well acquainted with their Inquisitor’s perpetuance for finding trouble. “I have been working on healing what damage I can. His core, chest, and back muscles and ligaments have been healed but lungs are different, complex, all vital organs are. That is why, no matter the healer’s skill, a wound in any of them is usually fatal. It is the same with the Inquisitor. I have bought him some time but no more, and he is susceptible to a relapse if he pushes himself too hard.”

 

“Such as with dragon hunting,” Cullen said.

 

Elewyn gave a nod. “Good luck convincing him to return, however,” she said. 

  
  


*

 

It was slower going than Mahanon would have liked but, three weeks after sneaking out of Skyhold he finally reached Sahrnia, a cold, dreary, and run down town in Emprise du Lion. Along the way he had stopped to listen in some of the towns he passed through, hoping to hear something of either the Inquisition or himself. He was not disappointed. Everywhere he went he heard ever inflated tales of how the famed Inquisitor had defeated the demon Corypheus while riding on the back of his pet dragon, sword held high, a sword some even claimed was flaming with his righteous fury. Mahanon had choked on his ale at that one, and it was all he could do to recover and come up with an acceptably mundane excuse as to why. And the further west he went the more ridiculous the tale. 

 

Unfortunately it was also the case that the further west he travelled, the worse his cough grew. Elewyn had done wonders for healing the symptoms such that Mahanon had dared to hope that he was almost normal. Not cured, he knew that such a healing was beyond even Elewyn’s skill, but at least as good as he was soon after arriving at Skyhold. It was not to be, however and, after a week on the road, camping rough the way he had when he was a simple hunter, he had been forced to concede defeat and start resting in taverns along the way. His only consolation was that no one was talking about how the Inquisitor had vanished or disappeared. That Leliana had someone watching him he had no doubt but at least they kept away and left him to his own devices; he could pretend they didn’t exist that way. 

 

Once more he passed himself as nothing more than an Inquisition scout (it was useful that a lot of the scouts in the Inquisition’s employ were elves) and asked around the town for a conspicuous group who might be helping out around the place, perhaps dealing with the area’s dragon problem, consisting of a qunari, a dwarf, and two humans, one of which wore a Seaker’s uniform. Thinking about it, Mahanon couldn’t help but be amused; how had Corypheus not been aware of everything they did when the party he travelled with was so unusual, especially when an elf was added to the mix. Nonetheless, it served his purpose this time; apparently the group had already broken the red templar’s hold on the area by capturing Suledin Keep. They had made camp there to rest before crossing the bridge to deal with the first of three dragons harassing the area. He pushed on to Suledin Keep.

 

*

 

Delayed as he had been in Sahrnia, Mahanon paused only long enough at Suledin Keep to determine that his friends weren’t there, had already moved on. And so, wrapping his cloak tightly around him against the howling wind, Mahanon crossed the long bridge known as Judicael’s Crossing, his shoulders hunched trying to keep as much warmth around his chest as he could. The cold here seemed so much more biting than at Skyhold and Mahanon blamed the red lyrium that seemed to be thriving here. It was, most definitely  _ not _ , a sign of his health deteriorating. Nevermind that the burning pain had returned with a vengeance the night before when his coughing had refused to release its hold for several hours until he had fallen into an exhausted sleep. He knew he was running out of time, but that only made him all the more determined to reach his friends, to help them defeat the dragons faster.

 

Finally, shivering but coated in a fine film of sweat, Mahanon reached the other end of the bridge. He could hear the sounds of fighting echoing down from an icy mountain, including the roar of a dragon. Undoing the clasp on his woolen cloak, Mahanon let it drop to the ground as he drew his daggers and ran towards the sound, adrenalin pushing away the cold, pain and weariness. Legs burning, he pounded up the stairs and paused when he saw the fighting. It was their typical formation - Cassandra drawing the dragon’s attention, protecting herself and the others with her heavy armour and shield, Varric at a distance, the thunk thunk thunking of his custom crossbow resonating across the icy field as he fired it, Dorian ensuring shields were always protecting everyone and shooting off fireballs when he had time to spare, and Bull… well Bull was being Bull, swinging his great axe around as though it weighed nothing, shouting vaguely sexual insults in a mix of common and qunari, and quite possibly doing the most damage of all of them. For a moment, Mahanon watched awed, unnoticed by any of them. For that moment in time he saw what others saw in them, the inspiring, unstoppable fighting force that they were. But then the dragon let out an ear splitting screech that momentarily broke through Cassandra’s defences and knocked the seeker to the ground. He couldn’t just stand here and watch, he had to join in, he wasn’t about to allow his friends to die hunting a cure for him that may or may not work.

 

Climbing the rock face that surrounded the area they were fighting, Mahanon watched, waiting until the dragon was within range beneath him and then leapt, daggers drawn. He landed on its snake-like neck, the daggers lodging in between the scales as the dragon reared, its voice roaring in pain and frustration. Mahanon could feel the air vibrating around him as he was swung wildly, clinging to his daggers as best he could. They were slipping, slicing through dragon flesh and leaving deep rends as they went. He heard Dorian swear as he hurriedly threw a barrier over him and Varric shouted something but the words were lost when the dragon gave another roar of frustration. It swung its head one way, and then sharply in the other direction, the force enough to dislodge both Mahanon and his daggers. He was flung to the earth and lay there gasping for breath. Cassandra spun around and stood over him, shield raised. 

 

“Inquisitor!” she shouted. “What- what are you doing here?”

 

Mahanon wiped the back of his hand over his mouth as he grinned. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun without me,” he said.

 

Further conversation was interrupted by the dragon they were supposed to be killing charging them. Mahanon pushed himself upright to roll away and out of its path, but Cassandra planted her feet and rose her shield. She was pushed back several meters before the dragon’s sheer size won out, and she tumbled backwards, frantically rolling to avoid being crushed beneath the beast’s massive paws. Bull gave a shout and swung at it, drawing its attention away. Mahanon attempted to join in, to charge at the dragon from behind, but it was aware of him now. With a great swing of it’s tail, it launched Mahanon across the field and he slid to a halt near Varric.

 

“Stay down, kid!” Varric shouted over the thunk-thunking of his crossbow. 

 

Mahanon wanted to ignore him, he wanted to get up and prove that he could still be useful, but between the cold, the dust of the battlefield, and being thrown around he was finding it hard enough to get his breath back, to force the coughing away, let alone find the strength to stand and continue fighting. He was so close, on the battlefield itself, but still he was forced to allow others to fight in his place.

*

 

Mahanon was held wrapped in Bulls arms, so thin and fragile like a baby bird, his strength, his admirable indomitable strength failing. Bull had barely been able to focus on the fight before him once the Inquisitor had suddenly joined in, and even more so when it became obvious that he was unable to defend himself further. Thankfully by then the dragon was at the end of its own strength and they were able to defeat it and protect the Inquisitor at the same time. But who knew if the next time they would be so lucky. He had suspected the elf wouldn’t stay at Skyhold for long and had made his own preperations for that eventuality. They had collected the dragon’s blood and made camp, and Cassandra and Varric had returned to Suledin Keep to send word to Scout Harding that the Inquisitor was here and to get ready. Now all that was left was to tell the Inquisitor himself. 

 

“I think… you should go to that oasis camp in the Western Approach,” Bull said. 

 

“The Forbidden Oasis?” Mahanon asked, the corner of his mouth twitching that Bull could forget the name of the place.

 

“Yeah, that one,” Bull said. 

 

Bull’s words caught up with him then. “You're sending me away?” Mahanon demanded, pulling away from Bull to turn and look at him. 

 

“Just for a little while,” Bull said. 

 

“You're sending me away,” Mahanon repeated, the hurt as clear in his voice as his eyes as he looked away, starting determinedly at the floor. 

 

“Just while we finish this. The hot dry air helped last time. You and Harding and her scouts could make camp there, wait for us there. It might- it might buy us enough time,” Bull said, his voice hitching on that last part; despite all his Ben Hassrath training, nothing had prepared him for the emotions this whole situation brought up. But he had to push on. “You stay here and… well the cold isn’t doing you any favours. Dragon hunting takes time. And…” he trailed off, unable to finish.

 

“And I don’t have time,” Mahanon said quietly, finishing for him. Bull didn’t answer, but he did pull the elf close once again, holding him tight while he could.

  
  
  



	34. Retreat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harding and her scouts escort Mahanon to the Forbidden Oasis to hopefully prolong his life enough for a cure to be found, but there is trouble on the way.

Riccard stood for several moments outside the caravan that housed the Inquisitor, trying to summon the courage to knock. He had been listening to him coughing and wheezing and struggling to breathe since they had picked him up in Emprise du Lion. He was clearly very sick, word was that he was dying from an incurable disease, but all they had officially been told that they were taking him to the Forbidden Oasis where it was hoped the dry heat would help him. Riccard had remained silent whenever these rumours were discussed. Listening to him fighting for breath though caused Riccard to remember a tea his ma used to make him when he was ill; lemon, honey, and hot water. It soothed the throat and the chest and, when they stopped for the night, Riccard set about making it for the Inquisitor, hoping it would at least ease some of his pain.

Waiting for a pause in the coughing Riccard took a breath and rapped on the wood of the carriage. And waited. No voice came from within bading him to enter but nor was he told to leave.

Lifting the carriage’s flap, he ducked inside but nearly tumbled back out again as he was met by the point of a dagger right in front of his eye. He gave an involuntary yelp and spilled a little of the hot drink on his thigh.

A chuckle was heard outside before Harding’s voice called out, “He’s one of ours, Lavellan.”

Riccard watched as the blade that had been about to blind him was lowered and, with a gasp, Riccard remembered how to breathe. His attention was drawn back to the one holding the knife when he stumbled back himself and started coughing once more. Pushing aside the imminent danger he had just been in, Riccard set the mug down on a create and hurried forward to help the Inquisitor back to the make-shift bed that had been made up for him.

The Inquisitor was… smaller than Riccard had imagined, both in height and stature. He and his closest friends had been responsible for saving Thedas time and again and even recently defeated the darkspawn demon god Corypheus. He was the hero of countless songs, sagas and tales not just for his deeds, many and great though they were, but for his just and often merciful judgments and for his famous love for the qunari mercenary. But here, now, he just looked sick. He was skeletal and frail as some very old men get. The bones of his hands and wrists stuck out clearly as he held a blanket tight around his shoulders. His cheeks were sunken and there were large black rings under his eyes. The slight bump in his nose, broken in a one on one duel with the leader of the rogue templars as the stories went, was prominent on his pallid face. Even his hair, always wild and untamed, now more resembled straw than the virility of a wild elf.

“Not exactly the Inquisitor of the stories, huh.”

Riccard flushed scarlet when he realised he had been caught staring. “Well, no- I mean, yes! Or rather… Maker,” he stuttered, trying to apologise and cover for his embarrassment and failing at both.

The Inquisitor wasn’t angry though. Instead he started laughing, or rather tried to before it turned into a coughing fit. Seeing the way the Inquisitor seemed to grab at his chest as though in pain, Riccard remembered the reason he had entered the carriage in the first place and it hadn’t been to gawk. Bringing the mug over he waited until the Inquisitor had his breath back then wordlessly offered the mug.

The Inquisitor though, shook his head. “It won’t work,” he said.

“I know,” Riccard replied. “Or rather, I know it won’t cure it. It’s just hot water, honey, and lemon juice. It won’t cure anything but it soothes the chest and throat made sore from coughing and tastes better than any healing potion.”

The corner of the Inquisitor’s mouth twitched at that and he took the mug, resting on his elbow as he sipped. A genuine smile spread over his face as he swallowed and it soothed his throat. “Of all the healings and concoctions I’ve tried, this is by far the most palatable.”

Riccard grinned. “I’m glad. Keeper Deshana said you would like to because it’s sweet,” he said. Apparently with poor timing since the Inquisitor choked on the drink which then descended into another coughing fit. Riccard reached out and rescued the mug before it was spilled. He handed it back once the coughing had subsided again, though kept a hold of it until it was placed on the floor seeing how the Inquisitor's hand trembled. 

“When… when did you speak to Keeper Deshana?” he asked. 

“About three weeks ago was the last time. I’m surprised the Nightingale didn’t tell you.”

The Inquisitor grimaced a little at that. “Leliana and I don’t exactly see eye to eye on her involvement in my clan. And I hadn’t heard from my Keeper for so long that I thought… well I assumed she was dead,” he said, his voice pained.

“She’s still alive,” Riccard said quietly. “She’s ill, like you, but alive. Or at least she was the last I was there. I was supposed to return three days ago but Scout Harding wanted me here.” He didn’t have to add that he was wanted here so he could pass on any news of the Inquisitor, good or bad, on to his clan as quickly as possible. Riccard had become one of the main couriers between the Inquisition and Clan Lavellan over the past year, and the only ‘shem’ as they called him to be trusted to enter and stay within the camp while so many were ill and dying. 

The two of them sat in silence for some time, each thinking and reflecting, the Inquisitor fiddling with an ironbark ring he wore on his middle finger.

“Tell me,” he eventually said, finishing his drink and laying back on his pallet, eyes closed.

Riccard smiled. “Of course,” he said. He spoke of the first day he had met the members of Clan Lavellan. Of how they had been both distrustful and welcoming at the same time. The Inquisition had already sent several soldiers there to help defend the clan, but none of them were welcome inside the aravel ring where the clan actually lived. Riccard had only been allowed because he had been recommended by both the Nightingale and Scout Harding and, after being given the chance, had proven both respectful and discrete.

He spoke of how Keeper Deshana had taken him under her wing, welcomed him at her campfire and told him of their ways. He spoke of how he sometimes had to carry her back to her aravel because she had pushed herself too hard attempting to heal or at least ease. He spoke of how he told what he knew of the Inquisition, the good it was trying to do, of the loyalty it inspired. He told the stories he had passed on about the Inquisitor himself and what kind of a leader he was, how he often took time out of his day to talk to the common folk under his command. How he was nearly always without shoes and that it drove Lady Montiliyet to distraction trying to change it (that made the Inquisitor smile).

He continued to speak even when it was obvious the Inquisitor had fallen asleep and only stopped when it was late and his voice had started to fail. Slowly, as quietly as he could so he wouldn’t wake the sleeping elf, he climbed out of the carriage. He was met by Scout Harding who handed him a roast roll from the evening’s dinner, which he accepted gratefully. “It’s a good thing you’re doing,” she said quietly. 

“It is?” Riccard asked around a mouthful of food, glancing back to the carriage. “I’m not so sure. He seemed upset with some of what I said. I would have thought he would be kept more informed of his clan’s business if he was interested.”

“His relationship with his clan is complicated from what he’s told me. He is a leader and a hero here, but in his clan he is a simple hunter, not a very good one, and a disgraced one at that.”

“Disgraced?” Riccard asked surprised. He had got the feeling that some members of the clan didn’t like him, though the Keeper always spoke fondly of him. But him being disgraced had never been mentioned.

“I don’t know the details. I doubt anyone does except those involved, The Iron Bull, and probably Nightingale. But I pieced together enough from what he’s said that he failed at something, some task, and that consequently he wouldn’t be welcome back even if he weren’t needed more here. But despite that they’re still his family. To be told about them, the good and the bad, would be a relief I think. Especially now,” she said, staring past Riccard at the carriage.

Riccard glanced over his shoulder as well digesting what Scout Harding had said, and nodded. He would go back tomorrow, he decided, and talk some more, to keep him company on the journey. Only this time he would announce himself before going in.

 

*

As it turned out, Harding’s dwarven stubbornness had become a blessing in disguise, not that he would ever admit as much. When he had left Emprise du Lion, Mahanon had been angry and hurt about being pushed aside and essentially sent away to be out of the way. He had been determined to ride out of Suliden Keep to prove his point. Harding had disagreed and organized a carriage for him. Still he refused but had been forced to accept the carriage when all of the keep’s horses were mysteriously spoken for on the day he had to leave. He didn’t know who he suspected most, Bull or Harding. Probably both in cahoots with each other.

Regardless, he wound up spending most of the following week laying down in that carriage being jostled around, coming out when it was time to eat and inevitably needing to retreat back again as the exhaustion and coughing returned. Riccard was good company, but he had his own tasks to complete. 

When, finally, he had gathered enough energy to sit on the driver’s seat in front of the carriage, Mahanon savoured it. A cloak was clutched around his shoulders - he seemed to be feeling the cold a lot more lately - and he regularly dozed off, but at least he had fresh air and could look around.

He was dozing when the carriage stopped, the lull in movement waking him.

“What’s going on?” he asked the driver.

“Rift up ahead. Scouts are searching for a way around it that the carriage can go along,” he replied as he stood and strung his own bow, standing protectively next to the Inquisitor.

“This is ridiculous,” Mahanon muttered. Undoing the clasp on his cloak he let it slip to the carriage seat and jumped down, gripping the side of the carriage while he waited for the inevitable dizzy spell to pass. 

“Move forward!” he shouted, coughing some then stepping forward himself. 

“Inquisitor, you can’t be serious. You’re in no condition to fight,” Harding said as she came up from behind, resting a hand on his shoulder to hold him back.

“Who said anything about me fighting?” Mahanon replied. “You and your scouts can fight, keep the demons off me. I’ll close the rift. I may be dying but the mark on my hand still works.”

“And we don’t know if using it will make you worse,” Harding argued. 

Mahanon shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? You and I both know I don’t have all that long left. I will not walk away from closing this rift when I can close it. What if we walk away and some travelling merchants or refugees are killed by it? I won’t have that on-” a cough, “on my conscience.”

Harding hesitated a moment, then gave a nod. “Riccard! You guard the Inquisitor. Keep him out of the fighting but help him get close enough to the rift to use his mark. Everyone else, we have demons to kill.”

With his daggers in hand, Mahanon was led down the road and around the corner to where he could hear the all too familiar sounds of people and demons coming together in a violent cacophony. The air was hot and dry, though it didn’t provide Mahanon with as much relief as it had the last time he was here. He guessed he was too far gone for that. Still, the rocky arid ground made movement easy and gave Riccard free range with his bow. The human was a good shot too, effectively keeping any demons off them so that Mahanon never even got the opportunity to use his daggers as they approached the green tear in the sky. The rift was large, easily as large as the one he had closed under Old Crestwood. “I had hoped all the rifts would close when we defeated Corypheus,” Mahanon muttered to himself.

Knowing that Riccard had never seen him close a rift before and likely didn’t know what it entailed, Mahanon spoke loudly over the noise, “It will take a few attempts to close one this big and when I try it’ll attract the demons. You’ll be ready?”

Riccard nodded grimly. “What will it do to you, personally? Will you need help? You know, with…” he trailed off uncomfortably, but Mahanon knew what he was trying to say.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Closing rifts has always smarted, especially big ones, but that’s from the mark, not my cough.” He smirked. “Worst case scenario, I black out and you toss some water on me to bring me round to finish the job.”

Riccard’s mouth twitched upwards, then frowned, then gave a hesitant smile, almost as though he couldn’t decide if the Inquisitor was joking or not. He decided to leave it be. “Alright. Ready when you are. I’ll keep them off you and so will everyone else.”

Mahanon gave a short nod. He coughed deliberately hard to clear his lungs and spat the blood to the side then focused on the rift. Taking a breath to steady himself, he held his hand out and willed the mark to activate, to connect with the rift. Green light shot from his palm and linked unerringly to the rift. He felt the pull and instinctively pulled back, an almost magical tug of war between the Fade and the living world. As he pulled, the demons swarmed. He could see out of the corner of his eye as Riccard fired shot after shot into them. He wasn’t as unerring as Sera was, but he was definitely close and more than capable and, as promised, the other Scouts also joined in on the act of playing keep-away with the demons from the Inquisitor.

Pulling, pulling, Mahanon felt the link snap almost audibly, the fade magic slamming back into his palm, the shock reverberating up his arm. With a gasp, he cradled his hand to his chest as he dropped to a knee. Almost immediately he felt a hand on his shoulder, heard Riccard’s voice asking if he was alright.

“Fine. Shoot the demons, they’re weakened!” Mahanon snapped. He felt a little guilty for being so sharp with Riccard but shoved the feeling away; he was unused to working with inexperienced fighters and this constant coughing was grating on his nerves. He stayed where he was for a few moments, focusing on his breathing and summoning the resolve he needed to continue. When he felt he could, he stood and once more threw out his hand to repeat the whole process.

It took another two attempts to close the rift for good and with the final snap of it closing Mahanon didn’t even bother trying to hide the weakness or his coughing. He was sitting on the ground where his legs had given out on him, twisted slightly to the side with both arms bracing, holding him up as he coughed uncontrollably. His lungs felt as though they had sucked down flame and the pain in his stomach from coughing so hard was almost as bad. He felt a hand on his back, rubbing it. A useless gesture of comfort but one he appreciated all the same. Bull used to do the same when he was having a bad night and-

No! he thought fiercely to himself as he felt self-pitying tears prick his eyes. He wouldn’t think of Bull, couldn’t, else he was sure he would break down and that was something he knew he didn’t have the breath for. Nonetheless, the mind - especially one prone to wander with illness and exhaustion - had a will of its own and summoned memories of Bull for him. The smooth skin and ridges of scars. His scent, a mix of sweat, leather, sex, and something wild and primal that he couldn’t put a name to. The gentle way his large hands would completely encompass Mahanon’s when he held them. The way he would cradle him to his body when he was too weak to move, just as he was being lifted and carried now. Mahanon, eyes closed, turned his head towards the body of the person carrying him but scrunched his nose a little; the scent was wrong. It wasn’t Bull. It couldn’t be. Bull had sent him away, didn’t want to see him wither and die and be helpless to stop it. Not that Mahanon could blame him, having watched it himself in his clan’s children countless times before he knew that it was far from a pleasant experience, but being abandoned in that way still stung. He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t want to see who it was that was carrying him, didn’t want them to see his pain. He feigned unconsciousness so he was placed in the bed in the carriage and only when he was left alone did he curl on his side and let himself openly (but silently) wallow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, I didn't realise how long it had been since I last posted! This chapter is a little on the short side and I have another half-chapter that will be posted in a couple days to come, then we get to find out if Bull makes it in time to cure his beloved, and if the cure even works. I've already mentally planned out that one, unlike this one, so hopefully it's not too long away. I am toying with the idea of an epilogue, to answer some questions about where this curse came from and to get some much-needed vengeance but we'll see how it goes.


	35. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter is sent.

_Dear Keeper Lavellan,_

 

_We have not corresponded directly before and truthfully I do not even know if this letter will find you alive. My name is Lace Harding. I am a scout for the Inquisition and privileged to call Mahanon friend._

_As you are no doubt aware, he is currently succumbing to the illness that is affecting your clan. We have found that dry heat delays the severity of the symptoms and as such have made camp in the Western Approach. And we wait._

_I know that it pains Mahanon greatly that he is spending his final days so far away from home and family even if he does not have the breath to tell me himself. We cannot take him north to his clan, I fear he would not survive such a long journey. But, if you could, I would greatly appreciate a return message detailing the funerary rites of your people. I cannot ask such a thing of Mahanon, he needs to maintain the hope that a cure will be found, and so I turn to you, his family, for advice._

_Help me help him one final time._

 

_Yours,  
_ _Lace Harding  
_ _Inquisition Scout Leader._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little mini chapter to tide you over to when I publish the next. Also good news, I have decided to extend what I originally planned as a short epilogue into two full final chapters. That way the story can be well and truly wrapped up and some questions answered.


	36. Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull races to the Forbidden Oasis camp, but will he reach it in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't often do this, but two songs really helped me write this chapter so if you like that kind of thing you may like to listen to them while reading.
> 
> The first is a song that goes with Bull's POV when he finds Mahanon (it has lyrics) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcS6Dm8zXNw
> 
> The second is a song that goes wtih Dorian's POV and what happens in the tent (no lyrics) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pl4Lab2f3I

Harding looked out over the campsite with a bittersweet feeling. Her people had done well, there was a large tent set up for the Inquisitor and other tents surrounding it. They were close enough to the oasis to benefit from the cooling effect it had on the breeze but not so close that they tracked water and mud all through the camp. And there was always a perimeter of scouts on guard, some seen and some not. 

 

Lavellan would appreciate their efficiency, she knew, if he saw it. He hadn’t though, and likely wouldn’t. He hadn’t left the carriage after closing the rift, hadn’t even complained about being stuck in there as he had previously. He had managed to walk from the carriage to the tent on his own, but that was it. Already she was questioning her decision to allow him to close the rift even if she knew both that she would never have been able to stop him after he set his mind to it, and also because he was right, they couldn’t allow anyone else to be harmed by it when they had the opportunity to fix it. 

 

Nonetheless, after Riccard had left with the letter for Clan Lavellan she had made sure to visit him several times every day, to chat and lift his spirits, or even just for company, so he knew he wasn’t alone. He asked about Riccard once and Harding said only that he was acting as a messenger and would likely be gone for a while. She regretted that when she saw how it seemed to deflate Mahanon, but she would not lie, not about that. Bad enough that he felt as though The Iron Bull had abandoned him, she would not allow him to believe that Riccard had chosen to leave. She could see how fast he was failing now. He slept most of the day and she had to ensure he was always laying on his side; on his stomach he couldn’t get enough air in to cough and clear his lungs, but on his back he ran the risk of choking and suffocating. He wasn’t eating any more and would only drink when they practically tipped it down his throat. Harding had managed to get him to swallow some watery broth yesterday but that was about it and she wondered if she were really helping him or if she should just leave him. Or maybe even take a knife to an artery. She had no doubt that The Iron Bull would arrive with his cure, but arriving in time? That was looking less and less likely.

 

* 

 

The horse beneath him was foaming at the mouth such that Bull could almost hear the scolding that Mahanon would give him for treating his mount so roughly, especially considering the courtesy the animal was doing for him by lugging his bulk around as the elf liked to say. But instead of causing him to slow down, such a thought only made him nudge the horse again to go even faster. If they didn’t get there soon it would be too late, he could feel it. And, for once, Dorian wasn’t complaining about the pace as he galloped along just behind him. Bull glanced back to see the man’s face set in a determined scowl, his normally perfectly groomed hair and moustache ruffled and wind blown. 

 

Cassandra and Varric were following as well, but not at the break neck pace Bull was keeping, both because they wanted to give Bull some privacy for whatever was to come and because Varric wasn’t as comfortable atop a horse as the rest of them were. 

 

There was a weariness in Bull’s muscles, but it barely even registered alongside the driving need to get to the Forbidden Oasis. He had barely been able to sleep these past few days, unable to put the thought that Mahanon might be out there, suffering and dying on his own. Of course, he knew he wasn’t really alone, Harding would never allow that, but it wasn’t the same because  _ he  _ wasn’t there with him. It had most definitely given a drive to his fighting, however; that last dragon, tough though it was, never even stood a chance and before its body had even cooled he was up in the saddle, vials of dragon blood safely packed in saddle bags and off. No word was spoken and none was needed. It took Dorian a full day to catch up but when the Vint explained that his magic was needed to change the dragon blood into a cure Bull was forced to accept his company. 

 

And now, cresting the rise that then led down to the Oasis itself and the tents below, he had to hope that they weren’t too late. Hope. The Inquisition was founded on hope, hope for peace, hope for an end to their troubles, hope for a better world. And now they had the better world the hope was that the Inquisitor who had made it happen would live to enjoy it.

 

A scout must have spotted them and sent word ahead - not that they were trying to hide their approach - as there were already a small group of people waiting to take their horses as Bull flung himself from the saddle handing the reigns to an elven man who was already making soothing cooing noises to the exhausted beast.

 

“The Inquisitor, where is he?” Bull demanded as he dug through his saddlebags for the vials.

 

“Central tent, that way,” the elf said, the sharp words and downturn of his mouth making it clear that he was unhappy with the condition the horse was in. Right then though, Bull didn’t care; he would ride a dozen horses into the ground if it meant he could save Mahanon.

 

He wove his way through the tents at a jog, silently cursing the way they all looked the same. How was he supposed to tell the ‘central’ tent from all the others in the roughly central area? But the hunched figure there, she looked familiar. Yes, there was harding sitting on a wooden stool looking out over the waters of the Oasis.

 

“Harding!” Bull called out as he approached.

 

Harding swiped a sleeve over her face and looked up at his approach and her eyes and the tip of her nose were both pink. She had been crying, and recently. Bull felt his stomach drop seeing that, knowing what it must mean but unwilling to accept it. 

 

“Where is he?” he growled. There was no sound of coughing. Why was there no sound of coughing?

 

“In there,” she said, pointing to the tent at her back. He immediately turned towards it and Harding flew to her feet. “Bull, wait!” But he didn’t wait, flinging the tent flap open and ducking his horns down to fit through the entrance. “There’s something you need… to… know…” Harding was still talking but her voice trailed off when she saw that Bull had frozen in the entrance and was simply staring. 

 

Mahanon was pale. Deathly pale. And he wasn’t breathing. An almost guttural cry escaped Bull’s lips and he took two steps towards the body on the bed before his knees gave out and he sat there, staring. He had seen hundreds, probably thousands of dead bodies in his lifetime, he knew what death looked like, what it felt like to feel that  _ absence  _ of life. And he felt that absence now, looking upon Mahanon’s still form. Too late. They were too late. He had pushed and pushed, even sent him here hoping that it would give them more time but it was not enough, was never going to be enough. 

 

Images flashed through his mind. Mahanon racing through the keep mud splattered and laughing with a trailing Josephine behind him. Mahanon well into his cups in the tavern babbling on how Bull must get scared of heights for being so tall. Mahanon standing before the crowd at a newly claimed Skyhold, raising a sword that was nearly as big as he was above his head. Mahanon tenderly caring for wounds on Cassandra’s chest, both pink with embarrassment. Mahanon’s lips and they way the centre of them parted just so when he was aroused. Mahanon screaming in pain as an enemy’s sword sliced into his hip. Mahanon walking among the training soldiers, talking to them, laughing with them. Mahanon standing in the midst of a battle, his hand glowing green, linked with a rift, his face in a set mask of determination.

 

And now he would never see such sights again. Never hear his laughter or listen to his voice. 

 

The tent flashed blue. Frowning, Bull wiped a hand over his eye to rid it of the tears, thinking it was just some illusion. But no the light was still there, and it was coming from Mahanon’s body. Or, more specifically, from markings all over his body. Bull had seen the markings before but only on Mahanon’s face and no where near this bright. These were all over his body if the light seeping through the thin blanket was any indication. And then he heard it, a straining, rattling inhale that whistled as it went past his lips and then an exhale and the light dimmed once more, leaving Mahanon’s body lifeless again. Now that Bull was looking for it he could see the dull marks, still lit but so dimly as to be nearly imperceptible. 

 

“Well. Shit,” Dorian’s voice came from where he stood just behind Bull, extra vials of blood held loosely in his hands. “Do… do you think these can still help?”

 

Bull shook his head slowly but it wasn’t in the negative, he just didn’t know. His body was lifeless again. His Mahanon’s body. His Kadan. Who he had sent away to die out here without him. Tears flowed afresh and unabated from his one good eye and, as he stared, the light flared and once more a strained breath was taken then released. It gave the semblance of life, but he wasn’t alive. Not really. They were too late and now, it was only Mythal’s spirits that was keeping him breathing for whatever cruel intentions they had. And this false life was somehow so much more cruel than even death would be.

 

“I’m sorry, Lavellan,” Dorian said softly as he stepped past Bull to put the vials of dragon blood they had collected on the bedside table, a kind of offering perhaps. He picked up the vials Bull hadn’t even realised he had dropped and added them as well. His own eyes were hot with unshed tears. “We tried, truly. We-”

 

Dorian broke off suddenly when Mahanon’s eyes flicked open and his head turned. There was no expression on his face, it was completely deadpan and the eyes did not blink. He heard Bull’s sharply indrawn breath behind him when he noticed. The blank eyes were glowing with the same ferocity as the markings that had once more lit up and they locked unerringly on Dorian. “Lavellan?” Dorian asked, a tremble in his voice at the creepy way the Inquisitor was just staring at him.

 

Too fast to react to, Mahanon’s arm shot out from under the covers, tossing them aside, and grabbed unerringly to Dorian’s wrist. Dorian gave a wordless cry as, not only did the markings flash blindingly bright, but he felt that same intrinsic  _ wrongness _ as his magic was invaded and yanked beyond his control. He tried to allow it, tried to feed his magic into Mahanon as he had done when the elf had healed Bull, but he wasn’t able to keep up. While last time Mahanon had only pulled mana from him when his offering dwindled, this time the pulling was constant and Dorian had to fight against every instinct that told him to pull away. This thing, whatever it was that allowed Mahanon to do this, had no concern or care for Dorian’s safety, only for completing the task it started. 

 

Mahanon’s other hand rose and unerringly grasped one of the vials of dragon’s blood, even though not once did he turn his face to it. His eyes were still open and still staring still the glowing neon blue, not having blinked once. The vial he held began to bubble and burn, heating up ridiculously fast, the smell of burnt flesh in the air as it burned Mahanon’s hand, though he showed no sign of any pain. Laces of silver began to appear in the dragon blood, twisting and turning and seeming to dance with the movement of the hot liquid. Smoke was gathered as the liquid was evaporated and soon began to obscure what was inside the vial. Still Mahanon drew more and more magic, still grasping the vial tightly regardless of the burns it was causing and neither Dorian nor Bull were willing to pull it away.

 

Several more minutes passed, minutes that felt like hours to the quickly tiring Dorian, until, finally with an almost audible pop, the magical connection between the two of them was severed as Mahanon let go of Dorian’s wrist. Dorian, for his part, gasped as though just getting fresh air after almost drowning, allowing himself to drop wearily to his knees. 

 

He and Bull both watched transfixed as Mahanon brought the vial to his mouth, pulled the stopper off with his teeth and spat it to the side before bringing the vial to his lips. Dorian winced as the heat raised blisters on his lips but, as with his hand, Mahanon did not seem to notice as the markings on his body flared even brighter and a deep breath was taken, breathing in all the fumes in one large breath. Slowly, slowly, the air was breathed out his nose and very little of the smoke came out with it. Then, with an action that made Dorian flinch for a second time, the vial was raised again and the small amount of liquid tossed back, swallowing it. 

 

The vial, now empty, was dropped, Mahanon’s hand falling limp to his side.

 

“Kadan?” Bull’s voice was rough, torn, wanting to but not daring to hope. 

 

Mahanon made no response, simply staring straight ahead, still unblinking. But as they watched, the lit markings began to fade and Mahanon began to breathe more rapidly. The breaths were shallow, but regular as opposed to large gasp of air that was forced in and out of him only when absolutely needed previously. Then, without a word or gesture, Mahanon lay back on the bed and closed his eyes and the blue light faded from him.

 

Tears were streaming down Dorian’s face as he watched. The Inquisitor was still deathly pale, but there were slight spots of pink high on his cheeks and, best of all, he was breathing of his own volition and the breath wasn’t strained. “Andraste be praised,” he murmured softly. 

 

“Not Andraste, she has done nothing for him,” Bull said from behind Dorian. He heard the qunari climb to his feet and take a few hesitant steps forward to sit at the stool that had been moved aside. Gently he picked up Mahanon’s hand and turned it over, palm up to examine the burns there. “Mythal,” he continued. “This is Mythal’s doing. It is her we should be praising.”

 

Dorian nodded, agreeing. He didn’t know why she had intervened and he shuddered to think of the cost of her work would be, but that was something they could deal with at a later date. For now, he was just grateful that she had, that it had worked and they had arrived before she had given up on him. 

 

Stifling a yawn, feeling the leaden weight in his limbs, Dorian climbed to his feet. He took a step forward and rested a hand on Bull’s broad shoulder for a moment before speaking. “I’m going to go find somewhere to sleep, and to let Harding know that the cure seems to have worked. I want to check him with my magic, to see what it’s healed and what it hasn’t, to make sure it’s fully gone but I need to rest first. Send word if he starts glowing again or something, I’ll come and he can pull my magic again,” he said. Giving Bull’s shoulder a squeeze he turned to leave.

 

“Dorian.”

 

Dorian paused at the entrance to the tent and turned back to see Bull had twisted to see him with his good eye, an eye that was red and tear stained but creased with a small smile. 

 

“Thank you. For everything,” Bull said sincerely.

 

Dorian smiled past his own tears and swept his best courtly bow, before leaving the two to their privacy.

 

*

Bull was left alone with his Kadan for perhaps fifteen minutes before Harding hesitantly came inside the tent. He hadn’t been doing much, just staring, absorbing the sight of his Kadan before him, and lightly rubbing the undamaged skin on his arm, reassuring himself that he was real, that he was alive. And listened to him breathing. It was still rapid and shallow but it no longer had the wet rattling it had previously that was constantly causing the elf to cough. 

 

“It’s true,” Harding said quietly, wonder in her voice. “When Dorian told me, I didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to hope. But he’s alive, and breathing on his own.”

 

Bull nodded, a small smile pulling on his lips as he watched Mahanon’s chest rise and fall on its own. “He’s a fighter,” he said proudly and he reached out to affectionately brush a lock of hair from Mahaon’s face. 

 

“When I first saw him like that, like… dead, no more than two hours ago I just… well. It doesn’t matter now. Dorian said the… process burned him?” Harding said. “I bought some healing supplies for burns.”

 

“Thanks,” Bull said. “I’ll take care of it.”

 

Harding nodded and handed him the bag she had used to carry them in. She rested a hand on Mahanon’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, her eyes sparkling with tears despite the smile she wore on her face. “Welcome back, Inquisitor,” she said quietly before taking her leave.

 

Digging through the bag, Bull pulled a healing potion out first and figured that would be best to start with. It would numb the pain and may even help with the burns on his lips and, doubtless down his throat. Slipping a hand under Mahanon’s head, Bull lifted it slightly and tipped the potion into his mouth, allowing it to spill a little onto his blistered lips. Bull smiled slightly as the elf instinctively swallowed; that was a good sign, meant that the scolding hadn’t done any serious damage. His hand however…

 

Putting the empty potion aside, Bull turned Mahanon’s hand so it was palm up and grimaced at what he saw. He had seen plenty of horrific burn injuries when he was in Saheron - fire was a popular tactic to spread terror - and while Mahanon’s burns weren’t as bad as some of those it was bad enough. The whole palm was bright red and had started to blister. One of the things Harding had provided was a gel like substance specifically for burns. It was good stuff, and Bull set to applying it immediately, though he would still have to ensure that infection didn’t set in; the elf had wasted away to near nothing with his illness, it wouldn’t take much to cause a lot of issues. Lightly wrapping the hand in bandages and placing it back on the mattress palm up, Bull settled in for a long night, to keep vigil; after pushing Mahanon away, he wasn’t about to let him out of his sight again.

 

*

 

It was the pain that Mahanon became aware of first. Pain everywhere. The pain in his chest and stomach, a constant for months now, was still there, as was his throat - probably from coughing so much. More unusual though was the pain in his mouth and lips and, even more intensely on his hand. His right hand, not his left so it wasn’t the mark. It hurt to breathe and he found he couldn’t get a lot of air in, but, strangely, it wasn’t a struggle to get what air he could in, he wasn’t fighting off the urge to cough. 

 

Slowly, he opened his eyes and blinked a few times to try to clear them. Fabric was above him, lit by a flickering light, a lamp probably. The dull paint of the Inquisition eye on the fabric was just visible in the low light. He was in a tent, the same tent that Harding had put up for him.

 

“Hey, Kadan.”

 

“Bull!” Mahanon exclaimed as his head flicked to the side towards the voice. Or tried to exclaim anyway, his voice coming out more as a croak and a painful one a that.

 

“Easy now,” Bull said, his voice soothing. “The cure seems to have worked, but it burned you in the process.”

 

That would definitely explain the pain, Mahanon thought. But the cure worked? Mahanon focussed on his breathing. Yes, there was still no urge to cough. Before he hadn’t gone this long without coughing at least to clear his throat, though the last thing he remembered was not being able to stop the coughing until he had blacked out. He couldn’t prevent the relieved smile that spread and his eyes closed as relief washed over him. It worked. He was cured. He was still weak and in a lot of pain from the process, and why his hand was burned he had no idea, but all of that could heal. 

 

Then another thought came to him and his eyes flicked open. Forcing himself to speak through the pain, he said, “We have to go. Now.” 

 

He started to sit up but Bull easily held him down, saying, “Woah there. Go where?”

 

“North. Clan Lavellan,” Mahanon said, trying to keep the painful talking to a minimum.

 

Bull just shook his head. “I don’t want you travelling anywhere just yet. Come morning, Dorian should be rested again enough to help you make more of the cure and it can be sent with a rider.”

 

_ Won’t work. The magic will expire, no longer be viable. It must be you. _

 

“It must be me,” Mahanon said, involuntarily echoing the voices of Mythal. “The magic, or whatever, must be done right before swallowing the cure,” he explained further.

 

Bull looked at Mahanon for a long time, long enough that Mahanon was afraid he would refuse, but the elf knew better than to speak up just now; the qunari was weighing up what options there were, to see if there were a way to get the best of both. There was not, Mahanon knew that with the same certainty that he knew he had to be the one to perform the cure. Bull eventually came to the same conclusion. He let out a half-growl, half-sigh and said, “Alright then. But it can wait until morning. For now, you can drink another potion and rest. I’ll see about getting some horses for us and sending word to the Inquisition.”

 

The delay grated - Mahanon wanted nothing more than to get up and leave right this minute - but he knew what Bull said was sound. They would need to organise supplies and he had said that Dorian was resting and Mahanon would need his magic to create the cures. It was for the best, even if he didn’t like it. With a nod, he allowed Bull to help him drink the potion, then settle him back in bed once more and, despite his urgency, he was asleep again in moments.

 

*

 

Bull allowed himself a couple hours of shuteye before rousing himself, Dorian, Cassandra, Varric and Harding, telling them the Inquisitor’s orders and keeping his own thoughts on the matter private. Not that it made any difference to Dorian after travelling with him for so long (“He’s mad,” were his words, though he immediately started moving around the tent packing the clothes he had discarded before falling into bed the night before). Neither Cassandra nor Varric thought that this was something they should be doing but neither of them could come up with another option, facing the same dilemma Bull had grappled with. Come dawn, orders to return to Skyhold were given to Varric, Cassandra, and all but two of Harding’s scouts, ravens were sent ahead to Skyhold (the Inquisitor had been healed but was still weak and a request for the healer Elewyn to travel north to meet them at the Lavellan camp if they did not cross paths before then), the camp was packed and fresh horses procured for Harding, Dorian, Bull, two scouts, and Mahanon with promises not to abuse these ones. 

 

The day, Bull thought, was quite pleasant for riding. Hot but the heat never bothered him. Neither did the cold, but at least he didn’t burn like Harding did. The day was made all the better by the bundle sitting across his lap, asleep against his chest. Mahanon was wrapped in a sheet as much to make it easier for Bull to hold him as to protect him from the harsh sun himself. The elf had barely stirred when Bull had wrapped the sheet around him and carried him to the horse. He had opened his eyes once since then, looked around, gave a weary smile to Dorian, then turned his face into Bull’s chest and fallen asleep again.    
  


“How is he?” Harding asked as she rode up next to Bull.

 

“He’s doing alright, I think,” Bull replied, looking down fondly at the sleeping elf. “He coughs sometimes, and there’s blood,” how he had near panicked the first time that had happened, “but it’s clotted and dark. There’s no fresh stuff.”

 

“That’s good,” Harding said with a genuine smile on her tired face. They were all tired, the strain of the last few days telling on them all, but even Mahanon, weakest of them all, pushed himself to keep going when he was awake enough to do so. That inspired them all to push on.

  
Bull looked down again at his Kadan and saw that he was awake once more, though the elf said nothing. His head was turned away from Bull, staring forward towards their destination, determination written all over his wasted face. With a small smile and a slight hugging squeeze, Bull looked forward as well, towards their destination.


End file.
